Elric At The End of Time

Book 7 of Elric

by Michael Moorcock

version 1.0

CONTENTS

Introduction 9

Elric 13

Elric at the End of Time 15

The Last Enchantment 69

The Secret Life of Elric of Melnibone 84

Sojan the Swordsman 93

Jerry Cornelius and Co. 199

New Worlds-Jerry Cornelius 201

In Lighter Vein 215

The Stone Thing 217

Introduction

ELRIC AT THE END OF TIME was the last story I wrote

about the albino prince. In some ways it's an affec-

tionate commentary on the kind of fantasy hero with

whom I'm most closely identified and it's also based

on the remark made some years ago by M. John

Harrison that the people who inhabit my End of

Time stories might, from Elric's perspective, seem to

be the very Lords of Chaos themselves. The story

brings together elements from most of the series

which, by the mid-seventies, I was completing. It

was finished in 1977, originally for a book which Big

O intended to publish and which Rodney Matthews

would illustrate. Big O effectively folded before the

book could appear. The Rodney Matthews paintings

all exist, but only a few of them have been seen

(principally in Rodney's own 1983 Calendar) which

is a great pity, since they represent some of his best

and most ambitious work. The only previous ap-

pearance of the story was in Terri Windling's and

Mark Arnold's Elsewhere anthology, which came out

in the USA in 1981.

The Last Enchantment was meant to be the final

Elric story. It was written in 1962, only a short while

after the first had appeared in magazine form and

before I wrote what was to become Stormbringer. I

gave the story to Ted Carnell for his magazine Sci-

ence Fantasy but he didn't want a "last" Elric story.

He persuaded me to write some more novellas and

in his capacity as my agent sent The Last Enchantment

to America, where it was rejected. Some fifteen years

later Ted's successor, Les Flood, came across the

story and returned it to me. It eventually appeared

in Ariel magazine in the U.S. in 1978, illustrated by

Tim Conrad. That was its only publication until now.

Like Elric at the End of Time it has never been pub-

lished in England and this is its first appearance in

book form.

The Sojan stories are my first fantasy tales to be

professionally published. They were begun in the

1950s for Tarzan Adventures, before I came to edit the

magazine. I was seventeen when they started to

appear and they were not published in book form

until Dave Britton and Mike Butterworth republished

them as Sojan, the first book they did as Savoy Edi-

tions. It was re-illustrated by Jim Cawthorn, the origi-

nal illustrator who has worked with me through my

whole career as a writer of fantastic fiction. This

book was primarily a compendium of my earliest

work, together with some of my writing about my

own fiction and I have included one or two other

pieces from Sojan here.

The Stone Thing was written in response to a re-

quest from Eric Bentcliffe, editor of the fanzine Triode,

which I used to write for in the fifties. It is one of

several parodies of my own work which I've done

over the years (some of which, it could be argued,

were not published as such) and it's one I'm par-

ticularly fond of. Triode specialised in humorous "fan

fiction"stories written about actual personalities in

the SF fieldand dates from the period in which

science fiction fans did not take themselves quite so

seriously as nowadays, and those who made religion

from an enthusiasm were generally mocked for it. I

hope the story itself will show some readers that I

am neither in touch with secret supernatural forces

nor the spokesman for an illuminating new mystical

knowledge. As a matter of fact I'm by nature ex-

traordinarily sceptical of the supernatural. I have

always conceived my fantastic stories simply as that

fantastic stories, escapist entertainment which hopes

to give some pleasure to the reader. Any profundi-

ties in those romances are a tribute to the one who

discovers them rather than to me. For a long while

the exaggerated reaction of some readers to my fan-

tasies caused me to try to dismiss them altogether.

However, I should like to say that I denigrate nei-

ther the stories nor their readers, though I do prefer

my comedies to my melodramas and personally would

put a greater value on books such as Gloriana, The

Condition of Muzak, Byzantium Endures or The Brothel

in Rosenstrasse. I've always had a happy facility for

fantasy and I suppose it's common enough for some-

one to make less of something which comes easily to

them.

Some of the non-fiction pieces about Elric and Co.

which were in the original Sojan selection edited by

Dave Britton are still here, for whatever interest they

provide. I have Dave Britton and Mike Butterworth

to thank for many things, not least their willingness

to sift through long-forgotten piles of paper and find

manuscripts and tear-sheets (The Golden Barge would

never have been published had it not been for their

retaining a copy of the manuscript which I had

thought permanently lost) and I should also like to

recognise, once again, Ted Carnell's encouragement

as the editor of my first Elric stories, Peter Ledeboer's

kindness as the publisher who originally commis-

sioned the title story as a vehicle for Rodney Mat-

thew's illustrations, the present publishers Alison

Peacock, Simon Scott and Nick Webb of NEL and

the encouragement, inspiration and friendship of

many people, amongst them Jim Cawthorn, Eric

Bentcliffe, Ron Bennett, Alan Dodd, Arthur Thom-

son and Ethel Lindsay who have known me since,

as an enthusiastic and, I'm sure, sometimes irritating

fifteen-year-old, I first began to write the Sojan stories.

Michael Moorcock,

Fulham Road

July 1983

ELRIC

Elric at the End of Time

1. In Which Mrs. Persson Detects An Above Average

Degree of Chaos In The Megaflow

RETURNING FROM China to London and the Spring of

1936, Una Persson found an unfamiliar quality of

pathos in most of the friends she had last seen, as

far as she recalled, during the Blitz on her way back

from 1970. Then they had been desperately hearty: it

was a comfort to understand that the condition was

not permanent. Here, at present, Pierrot ruled and

she felt she possessed a better grip on her power.

This was, she admitted with shame, her favourite

moral climate for it encouraged in her an enormously

gratifying sense of spiritual superiority: the advan-

tage of having been born, originally, into a later and

probably more sophisticated age. The 1960s. Some

women, she reflected, were forced to have children

in order to enjoy this pleasure.

But she was uneasy, so she reported to the local

Time Centre and the bearded, sullen features of Ser-

geant Alvarez who welcomed her in white, apologis-

ing for the fact that he had himself only just that

morning left the Lower Devonian and had not had

time to change.

"It's the megaflow, as you guessed," he told her,

operating toggles to reveal his crazy display sys-

tems. "We've lost control."

"We never really had it." She lit a Sherman's and

shook her long hair back over the headrest of the

swivel chair, opening her military overcoat and loos-

ening her webbing. "Is it worse than usual?"

"Much." He sipped cold coffee from his battered

silver mug. "It cuts through every plane we can pick

upa rogue current swerving through the dimen-

sions. Something of a twister."

"Jerry?"

"He's dormant. We checked. But it's like him,

certainly. Most probably another aspect."

"Oh, sod." Una straightened her shoulders.

"That's what I thought," said Alvarez. "Some-

one's going to have to do a spot of rubato." He

studied a screen. It was Greek to Una. For a moment

a pattern formed. Alvarez made a note. "Yes. It can

either be fixed at the nadir or the zenith. It's too late

to try anywhere in between. I think it's up to you,

Mrs. P."

She got to her feet. "Where's the zenith?"

"The End of Time."

"Well," she said, "that's something."

She opened her bag and made sure of her jar of

instant coffee. It was the one thing she couldn't get

at the End of Time.

"Sorry," said Alvarez, glad that the expert had

been there and that he could remain behind.

"It's just as well," she said. "This period's no

good for my moral well-being. I'll be off, then."

"Someone's got to." Alvarez failed to seem sym-

pathetic. "It's Chaos out there."

"You don't have to tell me."

She entered the make-shift chamber and was on

her way to the End of Time.

2. In Which The Eternal Champion Finds Himself at the

End of Time

ELRIC OF MELNIBONE shook a bone-white fist at the

greedy, glaring starsthe eyes of all those men whose

souls he had stolen to sustain his own enfeebled

body. He looked down. Though it seemed he stood

on something solid, there was only more blackness

falling away below him. It was as if he hung at the

centre of the universe. And here, too, were staring

points of yellow light. Was he to be judged?

His half-sentient runesword, Stormbringer, in its

scabbard on his left hip, murmured like a nervous

dog.

He had been on his way to Imrryr, to his home, to

reclaim his kingdom from his cousin Yyrkoon; sail-

ing from the Isle of the Purple Towns where he had

guested with Count Smiorgan Baldhead. Magic winds

had caught the Filkharian trader as she crossed the

unnamed water between the Vilmirian peninsula and

the Isle of Melnibone She had been borne into the

Dragon Sea and thence to The Sorcerer's Isle, so-

called because that barren place had once been the

home of Cran Liret, the Thief of Spells, a wizard

infamous for his borrowings, who had, at length,

been dispatched by those he sought to rival. But

much residual magic had been left behind. Certain

spells had come into the keeping of the Krettii, a

tribe of near-brutes who had migrated to the island

from the region of The Silent Land less than fifty

years before. Their shaman, one Grrodd Ybene Eenr,

had made unthinking use of devices buried by the

dying sorcerer as the spells of his peers sucked life

and sanity from them. Elric had dealt with more

than one clever wizard, but never with so mindless a

power. His battle had been long and exhausting and

had required the sacrifice of most of the Filkharians

as well as the entire tribe of Krettii. His sorcery had

become increasingly desperate. Sprite fought sprite,

devil fell upon devil, in planes both physical and

astral, all around the region of The Sorcerer's Isle.

Eventually Elric had mounted a massive summoning

against the allies of Grrodd Ybene Eenr with the

result that the shaman had been at last overwhelmed

and his remains scattered in Limbo. But Elric, cap-

tured by his own monstrous magickings, had fol-

lowed his enemy and now he stood in the Void,

crying out into appalling silence, hearing his words

only in his skull:

"Arioch! Arioch! Aid me!"

But his patron Duke of Hell was absent. He could

not exist here. He could not, for once, even hear his

favourite protege.

"Arioch! Repay my loyalty! I have given you blood and

souls!"

He did not breathe. His heart had stopped. All his

movements were sluggish.

The eyes looked down at him. They looked up at

him. Were they glad? Did they rejoice in his terror?

"Arioch!"

He yearned for a reply. He would have wept, but

no tears would come. His body was cold; less than

dead, yet not alive. A fear was in him greater than

any fear he had known before.

"Oh, Arioch! Aid me!"

He forced his right hand towards the pulsing pom-

mel of Stormbringer which, alone, still possessed

energy. The hilt of the sword was warm to his touch

and, as slowly he folded his fingers around it, it

seemed to swell in his fist and propel his arm up-

wards so that he did not draw the sword. Rather the

sword forced his limbs into motion. And now it

challenged the void, glowing with black fire, singing

its high, gleeful battlesong.

"Our destinies are intertwined, Stormbringer," said

Elric. "Bring us from this place, or those destinies

shall never be fulfilled."

Stormbringer swung like the needle of a compass

and Elric's unfeeling arm was wrenched round to go

with it. In eight directions the sword swung, as if to

the eight points of Chaos. It was questinglike a

hound sniffing a trail. Then a yell sounded from

within the strange metal of the blade; a distant cry of

delight, it seemed to Elric. The sound one would

hear if one stood above a valley listening to children

playing far below.

Elric knew that Stormbringer had sensed a plane

they might reach. Not necessarily their own, but one

which would accept them. And, as a drowning mari-

ner must yearn for the most inhospitable rock rather

than no rock at all, Elric yearned for that plane.

"Stormbringer. Take us there."

The sword hesitated. It moaned. It was suspicious.

"Take us there!" whispered the albino to his rune-

sword.

The sword struck back and forth, up and down, as

if it battled invisible enemies. Elric scarcely kept his

grip on it. It seemed that Stormbringer was fright-

ened of the world it had detected and sought to

drive it back but the act of seeking had in itself set

them both in motion. Already Elric could feel him-

self being drawn through the darkness, towards some-

thing he could see very dimly beyond the myriad

eyes, as dawn reveals clouds undetected in the night

sky.

Elric thought he saw the shapes of crags, pointed

and crazy. He thought he saw water, flat and ice-

blue. The stars faded and there was snow beneath

his feet, mountains all around him, a huge, blazing

sun overheadand above that another landscape, a

desert, as a magic mirror might reflect the contrasting

character of he who peered into ita desert, quite as

real as the snowy peaks in which he crouched, sword

in hand, waiting for one of these landscapes to fade

so that he might establish, to a degree, his bearings.

Evidently the two planes had intersected.

But the landscape overhead did not fade. He could

look up and see sand, mountains, vegetation, a sky

which met his own sky at a point half-way along the

curve of the huge sunand blended with it. He

looked about him. Snowy peaks in all directions.

Abovedesert everywhere. He felt dizzy, found that

he was staring downward, reaching to cup some of

the snow in his hand. It was ordinary snow, though

it seemed reluctant to melt in contact with his flesh.

"This is a world of Chaos," he muttered. "It obeys

no natural laws." His voice seemed loud, amplified

by the peaks, perhaps. "That is why you did not

want to come here. This is the world of powerful

rivals."

Stormbringer was silent, as if all its energy were

spent. But Elric did not sheath the blade. He began

to trudge through the snow toward what seemed to

be an abyss. Every so often he glanced upward, but

the desert overhead had not faded, sun and sky

remained the same. He wondered if he walked around

the surface of a miniature world. That if he contin-

ued to go forward he might eventually reach the

point where the two landscapes met. He wondered

if this were not some punishment wished upon him

by his untrustworthy allies of Chaos. Perhaps he

must choose between death in the snow or death in

the desert. He reached the edge of the abyss and

looked down.

The walls of the abyss fell for all of five feet before

reaching a floor of gold and silver squares which

stretched for perhaps another seven feet before they

reached the far wall, where the landscape continued

snow and cragsuninterrupted.

"This is undoubtedly where Chaos rules," said

the Prince of Melnibone. He studied the smooth,

chequered floor. It reflected parts of the snowy ter-

rain and the desert world above it. It reflected the

crimson-eyed albino who peered down at it, his fea-

tures drawn in bewilderment and tiredness.

"I am at their mercy," said Elric. "They play with

me. But I shall resist them, even as they destroy

me." And some of his wild, careless spirit came back

to him as he prepared to lower himself onto the

chequered floor and cross to the opposite bank.

He was half-way over when he heard a grunting

sound in the distance and a beast appeared, its paws

slithering uncertainly on the smooth surface, its seven

savage eyes glaring in all directions as if it sought

the instigator of its terrible indignity.

And, at last, all seven eyes focused on Elric and

the beast opened a mouth in which row upon row of

thin, vicious teeth were arranged, and uttered a growl

of unmistakable resentment.

Elric raised his sword. "Back, creature of Chaos.

You threaten the Prince of Melnibone."

The beast was already propelling itself towards

him. Elric flung his body to one side, aiming a blow

with the sword as he did so, succeeding only in

making a thin incision in the monster's heavily mus-

cled hind leg. It shrieked and began to turn.

"Back."

Elric's voice was the brave, thin squeak of a lem-

ming attacked by a hawk. He drove at the thing's

snout with Stormbringer. The sword was heavy. It

had spent all its energy and there was no more to

give. Elric wondered why he, himself, did not weaken.

Possibly the laws of nature were entirely abolished

in the Realm of Chaos. He struck and drew blood.

The beast paused, more in astonishment than fear.

Then it opened its jaws, pushed its back legs against

the snowy bank, and shot towards the albino who

tried to dodge it, lost his footing, and fell, sprawling

backwards, on the gold and silver surface.

3. In Which Una Persson Discovers An Unexpected Snag

THE GIGANTIC beetle, rainbow carapace glittering,

turned as if into the wind, which blew from the

distant mountains, its thick, flashing wings beating

rapidly as it bore its single passenger over the queer

landscape.

On its back Mrs. Persson checked the instruments

on her wrist. Ever since Man had begun to travel in

time it had become necessary for the League to de-

velop techniques to compensate for the fluctuations

and disruptions in the spacetime continua; perpetu-

ally monitoring the chronoflow and megaflow. She

pursed her lips. She had picked up the signal. She

made the semi-sentient beetle swing a degree or two

SSE and head directly for the mountains. She was in

some sort of enclosed (but vast) environment. These

mountains, as well as everything surrounding them,

lay in the territory most utilised by the gloomy,

natural-born Werther de Goethe, poet and romantic,

solitary seeker after truth in a world no longer differ-

entiating between the degrees of reality. He would

not remember her, she knew, because, as far as

Werther was concerned, they had not met yet. He

had not even, if Una were correct, experienced his

adventure with Mistress Christia, the Everlasting Con-

cubine. A story on which she had dined out more

than once, in duller eras.

The mountains drew closer. From here it was pos-

sible to see the entire arrangement (a creation of

Werther's very much in character): a desert land-

scape, a central sun, and, inverted above it, winter

mountains. Werther strove to make statements, like

so many naive artists before him, by presenting sim-

ple contrasts: The World is Bleak/The World is

Cold/Barren Am I As I Grow Old/Tomorrow I Die,

Entombed in Cold/For Silver My Poor Soul Was Sold

she remembered he was perhaps the worst poet she

had encountered in an eternity of meetings with bad

poets. He had taught himself to read and write in

old, old English so that he might carve those words

on one of his many abandoned tombs (half his time

was spent in composing obituaries for himself). Like

so many others he seemed to equate self-pity with

artistic inspiration. In an earlier age he might have

discovered his public and become quite rich (self-

pity passing for passion in the popular understand-

ing). Sometimes she regretted the passing of Whel-

drake, so long ago, so far away, in a universe bearing

scarcely any resemblances to those in which she

normally operated.

She brought her wavering mind back to the prob-

lem. The beetle dipped and circled over the desert,

but there was no sight of her quarry.

She was about to abandon the search when she

heard a faint roaring overhead and she looked up to

see another characteristic motif of Werther'sa gold

and silver chessboard on which, upside down, a

monstrous dog-like creature was bearing down on a

tiny white-haired man dressed in the most abomina-

ble taste Una had seen for some time.

She directed the aircar upwards and then, revers-

ing the machine as she entered the opposing grav-

ity, downwards to where the barbarically costumed

swordsman was about to be eaten by the beast.

"Shoo!" cried Una commandingly.

The beast raised a befuddled head.

"Shoo."

It licked lips and returned its seven-eyed gaze to

the albino, who was now on his knees, using his

large sword to steady himself as he climbed to his

feet.

The jaws opened wider and wider. The pale man

prepared, shakily, to defend himself.

Una directed the aircar at the beast's unkempt

head. The great beetle connected with a loud crack.

The monster's eyes widened in dismay. It yelped. It

sat on its haunches and began to slide away, its

claws making an unpleasant noise on the gold and

silver tiles.

Una landed the aircar and gestured for the stranger

to enter. She noticed with distaste that he was a

somewhat unhealthy looking albino with gaunt fea-

tures, exaggeratedly large and slanting eyes, ears

that were virtually pointed, and glaring, half-mad

red pupils.

And yet, undoubtedly, it was her quarry and there

was nothing for it but to be polite.

"Do, please, get in," she said. "I am here to res-

cue you."

"Shaarmraaam torjistoo quellahm vyeeanr," said the

stranger in an accent that seemed to Una to be vaguely

Scottish.

"Damn," she said, "that's all we need." She had

been anxious to approach the albino in private, be-

fore one of the denizens of the End of Time could

arrive and select him for a menagerie, but now she

regretted that Werther or perhaps Lord Jagged were

not here, for she realised that she needed one of

their translation pills, those tiny tablets which could

"engineer" the brain to understand a new language.

By a flukeor perhaps because of her presence here

so oftenthe people at the End of Time currently

spoke formal early twentieth-century English.

The albinowho wore a kind of tartan divided

kilt, knee-length boots, a blue and white jerkin, a

green cloak and a silver breastplate, with a variety of

leather belts and metal buckles here and there upon

his personwas vehemently refusing her offer of a

lift. He raised the sword before him as he backed

away, slipped once, reached the bank, scrambled

through snow and disappeared behind a rock.

Mrs. Persson sighed and put the car into motion

again.

4. In Which The Prince of Melnibone Encounters Further

Terrors

XIOMBARG HERSELF, thought Elric as he slid beneath

the snows into the cave. Well, he would have no

dealings with the Queen of Chaos; not until he was

forced to do so.

The cave was large. In the thin light from the gap

above his head he could not see far. He wondered

whether to return to the surface or risk going deeper

into the cave. There was always the hope that he

would find another way out. He was attempting to

recall some rune that would aid him, but all he knew

depended either upon the aid of elementals who did

not exist on this plane, or upon the Lords of Chaos

themselvesand they were unlikely to come to his

assistance in their own Realm. He was marooned

here: the single mouse in a world of cats.

Almost unconsciously he found himself moving

downwards, realising that the cave had become a

tunnel. He was feeling hungry but, apart from the

monster and the woman in the magical carriage, had

seen no sign of life. Even the cavern did not seem

entirely natural.

It widened; there was phosphorescent light. He

realised that the walls were of transparent crystal

and, behind the walls, were all manner of artefacts.

He saw crowns, sceptres and chains of precious jew-

els; cabinets of complicated carving; weapons of

strangely turned metal; armour, clothing, things

whose use he could not guessand food. There

were sweetmeats, fruits, flans and pies, all out of

reach.

Elric groaned. This was torment. Perhaps deliber-

ately planned torment. A thousand voices whispered

to him in a beautiful, alien language: "Bie-meee . . .

Bie-meee ..." the voices murmured. "Baa-gen baa-

gen . . ."

They seemed to be promising every delight, if

only he could pass through the walls; but they were

of transparent quartz, lit from within. He raised

Stormbringer, half-tempted to try to break down the

barrier, but he knew that even his sword was, at its

most powerful, incapable of destroying the magic of

Chaos.

He paused, gaping with astonishment at a group

of small dogs which looked at him with large brown

eyes, tongues lolling, and jumped up at him.

"O, Nee Tubbens!" intoned one of the voices.

"Gods." screamed Elric. "This torture is too much!"

He swung his body this way and that, threatening

with his sword, but the voices continued to murmur

and promise, displaying their riches but never allow-

ing him to touch.

The albino panted. His crimson eyes glared about

him. "You would drive me insane, eh? Well, Elric of

Melnibone has witnessed more frightful threats than

this. You will need to do more if you would destroy

his mind!"

And he ran through the whispering passages, look-

ing to neither his right nor his left, until, quite sud-

denly, he had run into blazing daylight and stood

staring down into pale infinitya blue and endless

void.

He looked up. And he screamed.

Overhead were the gentle hills and dales of a rural

landscape, with rivers, grazing cattle, woods and

cottages. He expected to fall, headlong, but he did

not. He was on the brink of the abyss. The cliff-face

of red sandstone fell immediately below and then

was the tranquil void. He looked back: "Baa-gen . . .

O, Nee Tubbens ..."

A bitter smile played about the albino's bloodless

lips as, decisively, he sheathed his sword.

"Well, then," he said. "Let them do their worst!"

And, laughing, he launched himself over the brink

of the cliff.

5. InWhichWertherdeGoetheMakes AWonderful

Discovery

WITH A gesture of quiet pride, Werther de Goethe

indicated his gigantic skull.

"It is very large, Werther," said Mistress Christia,

the Everlasting Concubine, turning a power ring to

adjust the shade of her eyes so that they perfectly

matched the day.

"It is monstrous," said Werther modestly. "It re-

minds us all of the Inevitable Night."

"Who was that?" enquired golden-haired Gaf the

Horse in Tears, at present studying ancient legendry.

"Sir Lew Grady?"

"I mean Death," Werther told him, "which over-

whelms us all."

"Well, not us," pointed out the Duke of Queens,

as usual a trifle literal minded. "Because we're im-

mortal, as you know."

Werther offered him a sad, pitying look and sighed

briefly. "Retain your delusions, if you will."

Mistress Christia stroked the gloomy Werther's

long, dark locks. "There, there," she said. "We have

compensations, Werther."

"Without Death," intoned the Last Romantic, "there

is no point to Life."

As usual, they could not follow him, but they

nodded gravely and politely.

"The skull," continued Werther, stroking the side

of his aircar (which was in the shape of a large flying

reptile) to make it circle and head for the left eye-

socket, "is a Symbol not only of our Morality, but

also of our Fruitless Ambitions."

"Fruit?" Bishop Castle, drowsing at the rear of the

vehicle, became interested. His hobby was currently

orchards. "Less? My pine-trees, you know, are prov-

ing a problem. The apples are much smaller than I

was led to believe."

"The skull is lovely," said Mistress Christia with

valiant enthusiasm. "Well, now that we have seen

it. . ."

"The outward shell," Werther told her. "It is what

it hides which is more important. Man's Foolish

Yearnings are all encompassed therein. His Greed,

his Need for the Impossible, the Heat of his Pas-

sions, the Coldness which must Finally Overtake

him. Through this eye-socket you will encounter a

little invention of my own called The Bargain Base-

ment of the Mind ..."

He broke off in astonishment.

On the top edge of the eye-socket a tiny figure

had emerged.

"What's that?" enquired the Duke of Queens, cran-

ing his head back. "A random thought?"

"It is not mine at all!"

The figure launched itself into the sky and seemed

to fly, with flailing limbs, towards the sun.

Werther frowned, watching the tiny man disap-

pear. "The gravity field is reversed there," he said

absently, "in order to make the most of the paradox,

you understand. There is a snowscape, a desert..."

But he was much more interested in the newcomer.

"How do you think he got into my skull?"

"At least he's enjoying himself. He seems to be

laughing," Mistress Christia bent an ear towards the

thin sound, which grew fainter and fainter at first,

but became louder again. "He's coming back."

Werther nodded. "Yes. The field's no longer re-

versed." He touched a power ring.

The laughter stopped and became a yell of rage.

The figure hurtled down on them. It had a sword in

one white hand and its red eyes blazed.

Hastily, Werther stroked another ring. The stranger

tumbled into the bottom of the aircar and lay there

panting, cursing and groaning.

"How wonderful!" cried Werther. "Oh, this is a

traveller from some rich, romantic past. Look at him!

What else could he be? What a prize!"

The stranger rose to his feet and raised the sword

high above his head, defying the amazed and de-

lighted passengers as he screamed at the top of his

voice:

"Heegeegrowinaz!"

"Good afternoon," said Mistress Christia. She

reached in her purse for a translation pill and found

one. "I wonder if you would care to swallow this

it's quite harmless ..."

"Yakooom, oom glallio," said the albino contemptu-

ously.

"Aha," said Mistress Christia. "Well, just as you

please."

The Duke of Queens pointed towards the other

socket. A huge, whirring beetle came sailing from it.

In its back was someone he recognised with plea-

sure. "Mrs. Persson!"

Una brought her aircar alongside.

"Is he in your charge?" asked Werther with

undisguised disappointment. "If so, I could offer

you . . ."

"I'm afraid he means a lot to me," she said.

"From your own age?" Mistress Christia also

recognised Una. She still offered the translation pill

in the palm of her hand. "He seems a mite suspi-

cious of us."

"I'd noticed," said Una. "It would be useful if he

would accept the pill. However, if he will not, one of

us . . ."

"I would be happy," offered the generous Duke of

Queens. He tugged at his green and gold beard.

"Werther de Goethe, Mrs. Persson."

"Perhaps I had better," said Una nodding to

Werther. The only problem with translation pills was

that they did their job so thoroughly. You could

speak the language perfectly, but you could speak

no other.

Werther was, for once, positive. "Let's all take a

pill," he suggested.

Everyone at the End of Time carried translation

pills, in case of meeting a visitor from Space or the

Past.

Mistress Christia handed hers to Una and found

another. They swallowed.

"Creatures of Chaos," said the newcomer with

cool dignity, "I demand that you release me. You

cannot hold a mortal in this way, not unless he has

struck a bargain with you. And no bargain was struck

which would bring me to the Realm of Chaos."

"It's actually more orderly than you'd think," said

Werther apologetically. "Your first experience, you

see, was the world of my skull, which was deliber-

ately muddled. I meant to show what Confusion

was the Mind of Man ..."

"May I introduce Mistress Christia, the Everlast-

ing Concubine," said the Duke of Queens, on his

best manners. "This is Mrs. Persson, Bishop Castle,

Gaf the Horse in Tears. Werther de Goetheyour

unwitting hostand I am the Duke of Queens. We

welcome you to our world. Your name, sir ... ?"

"You must know me, my lord duke," said Elric.

"For I am Elric of Melnibone, Emperor by Right of

Birth, Inheritor of the Ruby Throne, Bearer of the

Actorios, Wielder of the Black Sword ..."

"Indeed!" said Werther de Goethe. In a whispered

aside to Mrs. Persson: "What a marvellous scowl!

What a noble sneer!"

"You are an important personage in your world,

then?" said Mistress Christia, fluttering the eyelashes

she had just extended by half an inch. "Perhaps you

would allow me ..."

"I think he wishes to be returned to his home,"

said Mrs. Persson hastily.

"Returned?" Werther was astonished. "But the

Morphail Effect! It is impossible."

"Not in this case, I think," she said. "For if he is

not returned there is no telling the fluctuations which

will take place throughout the dimensions ..."

They could not follow her, but they accepted her

tone.

"Aye," said Elric darkly, "return me to my realm,

so that I may fulfill my own doom-laden destiny ..."

Werther looked upon the albino with affectionate

delight. "Aha! A fellow spirit! I, too, have a doom-

laden destiny."

"I doubt it is as doom-laden as mine." Elric peered

moodily back at the skull as the two aircars fled

away towards a gentle horizon where exotic trees

bloomed.

"Well," said Werther with an effort, "perhaps it is

not, though I assure you ..."

"I have looked upon hell-born horror," said Elric,

"and communicated with the very Gods of the Ut-

termost Darkness. I have seen things which would

turn other men's minds to useless jelly . . ."

"Jelly?" interrupted Bishop Castle. "Do you, in

your turn, have any expertise with, for instance,

blackbird trees?"

"Your words are meaningless," Elric told him,

glowering. "Why do you torment me so, my lords? I

did not ask to visit your world. I belong in the world

of men, in the Young Kingdoms, where I seek my

weird. Why, I have but lately experienced adven-

tures ..."

"I do think we have one of those bores," mur-

mured Bishop Castle to the Duke of Queens, "so

common amongst time-travellers. They all believe

themselves unique."

But the Duke of Queens refused to be drawn. He

had developed a liking for the frowning albino. Gaf

the Horse in Tears was also plainly impressed, for

he had fashioned his own features into a rough

likeness of Elric's. The Prince of Melnibone pretended

insouciance, but it was evident to Una that he was

frightened. She tried to calm him.

"People here at the End of Time . . ." she began.

"No soft words, my lady." A cynical smile played

about the albino's lips. "I know you for that great

unholy temptress, Queen of the Swords, Xiombarg

herself."

"I assure you, I am as human as you, sir . . ."

"Human? I, human? I am not human, madam

though I be a mortal, 'tis true. I am of older blood,

the blood of the Bright Empire itself, the blood of

R'lin K'ren A'a which Cran Liret mocked, not under-

standing what it was he laughed at. Aye, though

forced to summon aid from Chaos, I made no bar-

gain to become a slave in your realm ..."

"I assure youumyour majesty," said Una, "that

we had not meant to insult you and your presence

here was no doing of ours. I am, as it happens, a

stranger here myself. I came especially to see you, to

help you escape ..."

"Ha!" said the albino. "I have heard such words

before. You would lure me into some worse trap

than this. Tell me, where is Duke Arioch? He, at

least, I owe some allegiance to."

"We have no one of that name," apologised Mis-

tress Christia. She enquired of Gaf, who knew ev-

eryone. "No time-traveller?"

"None," Gaf studied Elric's eyes and made a small

adjustment to his own. He sat back, satisfied.

Elric shuddered and turned away mumbling.

"You are very welcome here," said Werther. "I

cannot tell you how glad I am to meet one as essen-

tially morbid and self-pitying as myself!"

Elric did not seem flattered.

"What can we do to make you feel at home?"

asked Mistress Christia. She had changed her hair to

a rather glossy blue in the hope, perhaps, that Elric

would find it more attractive. "Is there anything you

need?"

"Need? Aye. Peace of mind. Knowledge of my

true destiny. A quiet place where I can be with

Cymoril, whom I love."

"What does this Cymoril look like?" Mistress

Christia became just a trifle over-eager.

"She is the most beautiful creature in the uni-

verse," said Elric.

"It isn't very much to go on," said Mistress Christia.

"If you could imagine a picture, perhaps? There are

devices in the old cities which could visualise your

thoughts. We could go there. I should be happy to

fill in for her, as it were ..."

"What? You offer me a simulacrum? Do you not

think I should detect such witchery at once? Ah, this

is loathsome! Slay me, if you will, or continue the

torment. I'll listen no longer!"

They were floating now, between high cliffs. On a

ledge far below a group of time-travellers pointed up

at them. One waved desperately.

"You've offended him, Mistress Christia," said

Werther pettishly. "You don't understand how sen-

sitive he is."

"Yes I do." She was aggrieved. "I was only being

sympathetic."

"Sympathy!" Elric rubbed at his long, somewhat

pointed jaw. "Ha! What do I want with sympathy?"

"I never heard anyone who wanted it more." Mis-

tress Christia was kind. "You're like a little boy,

really, aren't you?"

"Compared to the ancient Lords of Chaos, I am a

child, aye. But my blood is old and cold, the blood

of decaying Melnibone, as well you know." And

with a huge sigh the albino seated himself at the far

end of the car and rested his head on his fist. "Well?

What is your pleasure, my lords and ladies of Hell?"

"It is your pleasure we are anxious to achieve,"

Werther told him. "Is there anything at all we can

do? Some environment we can manufacture? What

are you used to?"

"Used to? I am used to the crack of leathery dragon

wings in the sweet, sharp air of the early dawn. I am

used to the sound of red battle, the drumming of

hooves on bloody earth, the screams of the dying,

the yells of the victorious. I am used to warring

against demons and monsters, sorcerers and ghouls.

I have sailed on magic ships and fought hand to

hand with reptilian savages. I have encountered the

Jade Man himself. I have fought side by side with

the elementals, who are my allies. I have battled

black evil . . ."

"Well," said Werther, "that's something to go on,

at any rate. I'm sure we can . . ."

"Lord Elric won't be staying," began Una Persson

politely. "You seethese fluctuations in the mega-

flownot to mention his own destiny ... He should

not be here, at all, Werther."

"Nonsense!" Werther flung a black velvet arm about

the stiff shoulders of his new friend. "It is evident

that our destinies are one. Lord Elric is as grief-

haunted as myself!"

"How can you know what it is to be haunted by

grief . . . ?" murmured the albino. His face was half-

buried in Werther's generous sleeve.

Mrs. Persson controlled herself. She rose from

Werther's aircar and made for her own. "Well," she

said, "I must be off. I hope to see you later,

everybody."

They sang out their farewells.

Una Persson turned her beetle westward, towards

Castle Canaria, the home of her old friend Lord

Jagged.

She needed help and advice.

6. In Which Elric of Melnibone Resists the Temptations of

the Chaos Lords

ELRIC REFLECTED on the subtle way in which laughing

Lords of Chaos had captured him. Apparently, he

was merely a guest and quite free to wander where

he would in their Realm. Actually, he was in their

power as much as if they had chained him, for he

could not flee this flying dragon and they had al-

ready demonstrated their enormous magical gifts in

subtle ways, primarily with their shapechanging. Only

the one who called himself Werther de Goethe (plainly

a leader in the hierarchy of Chaos) still had the face

and clothing he had worn when first encountered.

It was evident that this realm obeyed no natural

laws, that it was mutable according to the whims of

its powerful inhabitants. They could destroy him

with a breath and had, subtly enough, given him

evidence of that fact. How could he possibly escape

such danger? By calling upon the Lords of Law for

aid? But he owed them no loyalty and they, doubt-

less, regarded him as their enemy. But if he were to

transfer his allegiance to Law . . .

These thoughts and more continued to engage

him, while his captors chatted easily in the ancient

High Speech of Melnibone, itself a version of the

very language of Chaos. It was one of the other

ways in which they revealed themselves for what

they were. He fingered his runesword, wondering if

it would be possible to slay such a lord and steal his

energy, giving himself enough power for a little while

to hurl himself back to his own sphere . . .

The one called Lord Werther was leaning over the

side of the beast-vessel. "Oh, come and see, Elric.

Look!"

Reluctantly, the albino moved to where Werther

peered and pointed.

The entire landscape was filled with a monstrous

battle. Creatures of all kinds and all combinations

tore at one another with huge teeth and claws. Shape-

less things slithered and hopped; giants, naked but

for helmets and greaves, slashed at these beasts with

great broadswords and axes, but were borne down.

Flame and black smoke drifted everywhere. There

was a smell. The stink of blood?

"What do you miss most?" asked the female. She

pressed a soft body against him. He pretended not

to be aware of it. He knew what magic flesh could

hide on a she-witch.

"I miss peace," said Elric almost to himself, "and I

miss war. For in battle I find a kind of peace ..."

"Very good!" Bishop Castle applauded. "You are

beginning to learn our ways. You will soon become

one of our best conversationalists."

Elric touched the hilt of Stormbringer, hoping to

feel it grow warm and vibrant under his hand, but it

was still, impotent in the Realm of Chaos. He ut-

tered a heavy sigh.

"You are an adventurer, then, in your own world?"

said the Duke of Queens. He was bluff. He had

changed his beard to an ordinary sort of black and

was wearing a scarlet costume; quilted doublet and

tight-fitting hose, with a blue and white ruff, an

elaborately feathered hat on his head. "I, too, am

something of a vagabond. As far, of course, as it is

possible to be here. A buccaneer, of sorts. That is,

my actions are in the main bolder than those of my

fellows. More spectacular. Vulgar. Like yourself, sir.

I admire your costume."

Elric knew that this Duke of Hell was referring to

the fact that he affected the costume of the southern

barbarian, that he did not wear the more restrained

colours and more cleverly wrought silks and metals

of his own folk. He gave tit for tat at this time. He

bowed.

"Thank you, sir. Your own clothes rival mine."

"Do you think so?" The hell-lord pretended plea-

sure. If Elric had not known better, the creature

would seem to be swelling with pride.

"Look!" cried Werther again. "Look, Lord Elric

we are attacked."

Elric whirled.

From below were rising oddly-wrought vessels

something like ships, but with huge round wheels at

their sides, like the wheels of water-clocks he had

seen once in Pikarayd. Coloured smoke issued from

chimneys mounted on their decks which swarmed

with huge birds dressed in human clothing. The

birds had multi-coloured plumage, curved beaks, and

they held swords in their claws, while on their heads

were strangely shaped black hats on which were

blazed skulls with crossed bones beneath.

"Heave to!" squawked the birds. "Or we'll put a

shot across your bowels!"

"What can they be?" cried Bishop Castle.

"Parrots," said Werther de Goethe soberly. "Oth-

erwise known as the hawks of the sea. And they

mean us no good."

Mistress Christia blinked.

"Don't you mean pirates, dear?"

Elric took a firm grip on his sword. Some of the

words the Chaos Lords used were absolutely mean-

ingless to him. But whether the attacking creatures

were of their own conception, or whether they were

true enemies of his captors, Elric prepared to do

bloody battle. His spirits improved. At least here

was something substantial to fight.

7. In Which Mrs. Persson Becomes Anxious About the Fu-

ture of the Universe

LORD JAGGED of Canaria was nowhere to be found.

His huge castle, of gold and yellow spires, an

embellished replica of Kings Cross station, was pop-

ulated entirely by his quaint robots, whom Jagged

found at once more mysterious and more trustwor-

thy than android or human servants, for they could

answer only according to a limited programme.

Una suspected that Jagged was, himself, upon

some mission, for he, too, was a member of the

League of Temporal Adventures. But she needed

aid. Somehow she had to return Elric to his own

dimensions without creating further disruptions in

the fabric of Time and Space. The Conjunction was

not due yet and, if things got any worse, might

never come. So many plans depended on the Con-

junction of the Million Spheres that she could not

risk its failure. But she could not reveal too much

either to Elric or his hosts. As a Guild member she

was sworn to the utmost and indeed necessary se-

crecy. Even here at the End of Time there were

certain laws which could be disobeyed only at

enormous risk. Words alone were dangerous when

they described ideas concerning the nature of Time.

She racked her brains. She considered seeking out

Jherek Carnelian, but then remembered that he had

scarcely begun to understand his own destiny. Be-

sides, there were certain similarities between Jherek

and Elric which she could only sense at present. It

would be best to go cautiously there.

She decided that she had no choice. She must

return to the Time Centre and see if they could

detect Lord Jagged for her.

She brought the necessary co-ordinates together in

her mind and concentrated. For a moment all memo-

ries, all sense of identity left her.

Sergeant Alvarez was beside himself. His screens

were no longer completely without form. Instead,

peculiar shapes could be seen in the arrangements of

lines. Una thought she saw faces, beasts, landscapes.

That had never occurred before. The instruments, at

least, had remained sane, even as they recorded

insanity.

"It's getting worse," said Alvarez. "You've hardly

any Time left. What there is, I've managed to bor-

row for you. Did you contact the rogue?"

She nodded. "Yes. But getting him to return ... I

want you to find Jagged."

"Jagged? Are you sure?"

"It's our only chance, I think."

Alvarez sighed and bent a tense back over his

controls.

8. In Which Elric and Werther Fight Side By Side Against

Almost Overwhelming Odds

SOMEWHERE, IT seemed to Elric, as he parried and

thrust at the attacking bird-monsters, rich and rous-

ing music played. It must be a delusion, brought on

by battle-madness. Blood and feathers covered the

carriage. He saw the one called Christia carried

off screaming. Bishop Castle had disappeared. Gaf

had gone. Only the three of them, shoulder to shoul-

der, continued to fight. What was disconcerting to

Elric was that Werther and the Duke of Queens bore

swords absolutely identical to Stormbringer. Perhaps

they were the legendary Brothers of the Black Sword,

said to reside in Chaos?

He was forced to admit to himself that he experi-

enced a sense of comradeship with these two, who

were braver than most in defending themselves

against such dreadful, unlikely monstersperhaps

some creation of their own which had turned against

them.

Having captured the Lady Christia, the birds be-

gan to return to their own craft.

"We must rescue her!" cried Werther as the flying

ships began to retreat. "Quickly! In pursuit!"

"Should we not seek reinforcements?" asked Elric,

further impressed by the courage of this Chaos Lord.

"No time!" cried the Duke of Queens. "After them!"

Werther shouted to his vessel. "Follow those ships!"

The vessel did not move.

"It has an enchantment on it," said Werther. "We

are stranded! Ah, and I loved her so much!"

Elric became suspicious again. Werther had shown

no signs, previously, of any affection for the female.

"You loved her?"

"From a distance," Werther explained. "Duke of

Queens, what can we do? Those parrots will ransom

her savagely and mishandle her objects of virtue!"

"Dastardly poltroons!" roared the huge duke.

Elric could make little sense of this exchange. It

dawned on him, then, that he could still hear the

rousing music. He looked below. On some sort of

dais in the middle of the bizarre landscape a large

group of musicians was assembled. They played on,

apparently oblivious of what happened above. This

was truly a world dominated by Chaos.

Their ship began slowly to fall towards the band.

It lurched. Elric gasped and clung to the side as they

struck yielding ground and bumped to a halt.

The Duke of Queens, apparently elated, was al-

ready scrambling overboard. "There! We can follow

on those mounts."

Tethered near the dais was a herd of creatures

bearing some slight resemblance to horses but in a

variety of dazzling, metallic colours, with horns and

bony ridges on their backs. Saddles and bridles of

alien workmanship showed that they were domestic

beasts, doubtless belonging to the musicians.

"They will want some payment from us, surely,"

said Elric, as they hurried towards the horses.

"Ah, true!" Werther reached into a purse at his

belt and drew forth a handful of jewels. Casually he

flung them towards the musicians and climbed into

the saddle of the nearest beast. Elric and the Duke of

Queens followed his example. Then Werther, with a

whoop, was off in the direction in which the bird-

monsters had gone.

The landscape of this world of Chaos changed

rapidly as they rode. They galloped through forests

of crystalline trees, over fields of glowing flowers,

leapt rivers the colour of blood and the consistency

of mercury, and their tireless mounts maintained a

headlong pace which never faltered. Through clouds

of boiling gas which wept, through rain, through

snow, through intolerable heat, through shallow lakes

in which oddly fashioned fish wriggled and gasped,

until at last a range of mountains came in sight.

"There!" panted Werther, pointing with his own

runesword. "Their lair. Oh, the fiends! How can we

climb such smooth cliffs?"

It was true that the base of the cliffs rose some

hundred feet before they became suddenly ragged,

like the rotting teeth of the beggars of Nadsokor.

They were of dusky, purple obsidian and so smooth

as to reflect the faces of the three adventurers who

stared at them in despair.

It was Elric who saw the steps cut into the side of

the cliff.

"These will take us up some of the way, at least."

"It could be a trap," said the Duke of Queens. He,

too, seemed to be relishing the opportunity to take

action. Although a Lord of Chaos there was some-

thing about him that made Elric respond to a fellow

spirit.

"Let them trap us," said Elric laconically. "We

have our swords."

With a wild laugh, Werther de Goethe was the

first to swing himself from his saddle and run towards

the steps, leaping up them almost as if he had the

power of flight. Elric and the Duke of Queens fol-

lowed more slowly.

Their feet slipping in the narrow spaces not meant

for mortals to climb, ever aware of the dizzying drop

on their left, the three came at last to the top of the

cliff and stood clinging to sharp crags, staring across

a plain at a crazy castle rising into the clouds before

them.

"Their stronghold," said Werther.

"What are these creatures?" Elric asked. "Why do

they attack you? Why do they capture the Lady

Christia?"

"They nurse an abiding hatred for us," explained

the Duke of Queens, and looked expectantly at

Werther, who added:

"This was their world before it became ours."

"And before it became theirs," said the Duke of

Queens, "it was the world of the Yargtroon."

"The Yargtroon?" Elric frowned.

"They dispossessed the bodiless vampire goat-folk

of Kia," explained Werther. "Who, in turn, destroyed

or thought they destroyedthe Grash-Tu-Xem, a

race of Old Ones older than any Old Ones except

the Elder Old Ones of Ancient Thriss."

"Older even than Chaos?" asked Elric.

"Oh, far older," said Werther.

"It's almost completely collapsed, it's so old," added

the Duke of Queens.

Elric was baffled. "Thriss?"

"Chaos," said the duke.

Elric let a thin smile play about his lips. "You still

mock me, my lord. The power of Chaos is the great-

est there is, only equalled by the power of Law."

"Oh, certainly," agreed the Duke of Queens.

Elric became suspicious again. "Do you play with

me, my lord?"

"Well, naturally, we try to please our guests ..."

Werther interrupted. "Yonder doomy edifice holds

the one I love. Somewhere within its walls she is

incarcerated, while ghouls taunt at her and devils

threaten."

"The bird-monsters,. . .?" began Elric.

"Chimerae," said the Duke of Queens. "You saw

only one of the shapes they assume."

Elric understood this. "Aha!"

"But how can we enter it?" Werther spoke almost

to himself.

"We must wait until nightfall," said Elric, "and

enter under the cover of darkness."

"Nightfall?" Werther brightened.

Suddenly they were in utter darkness.

Somewhere the Duke of Queens lost his footing

and fell with a muffled curse.

9. In Which Mrs. Persson At Last Makes Contact With

Her Old Friend

THEY STOOD together beneath the striped awning of

the tent while a short distance away armoured men,

mounted on armoured horses, jousted, were injured

or died. The two members wore appropriate cos-

tumes for the period. Lord Jagged looked handsome

in his surcoat and mail, but Una Persson merely

looked uncomfortable in her wimple and kirtle.

"I can't leave just now," he was saying. "I am

laying the foundations for a very important develop-

ment."

"Which will come to nothing unless Elric is re-

turned," she said.

A knight with a broken lance thundered past,

covering them in dust.

"Well played Sir Holger!" called Lord Jagged. "An

ancestor of mine, you know," he told her.

"You will not be able to recognise the world of the

End of Time when you return, if this is allowed to

continue," she said.

"It's always difficult, isn't it?" But he was listening

to her now.

"These disruptions could as easily affect us and

leave us stranded," she added. "We would lose any

freedom we have gained."

He bit into a pomegranate and offered it to her.

"You can only get these in this area. Did you know?

Impossible to find in England. In the thirteenth cen-

tury, at any rate. The idea of freedom is such a

nebulous one, isn't it? Most of the time when angry

people are speaking of 'freedom' what they are actu-

ally asking for is much simplerrespect. Do those in

authority or those with power ever really respect

those who do not have power?" He paused. "Or do

they mean 'power' and not 'freedom.' Or are they

the same . . .?"

"Really, Jagged, this is no time for self-indulgence."

He looked about him. "There's little else to do in

the Middle East in the thirteenth century, I assure

you, except eat pomegranates and philosophise . . ."

"You must come back to the End of Time."

He wiped his handsome chin. "Your urgency," he

said, "worries me, Una. These matters should be

handled with delicacyslowly ..."

"The entire fabric will collapse unless he is re-

turned to his own dimension. He is an important

factor in the whole plan."

"Well, yes, I understand that."

"He is, in one sense at least, your protege."

"I know. But not my responsibility."

"You must help," she said.

There was a loud bang and a crash.

A splinter flew into Mrs. Persson's eye.

"Oh, zounds!" she said.

10. In Which The Castle Is Assaulted And The Plot

Thickened

A MOON had appeared above the spires of the castle

which seemed to Elric to have changed its shape

since he had first seen it. He meant to ask his com-

panions for an explanation, but at present they were

all sworn to silence as they crept nearer. From within

the castle burst light, emanating from guttering brands

stuck into brackets on the walls. There was laughter,

noise of feasting. Hidden behind a rock they peered

through one large window and inspected the scene

within.

The entire hall was full of men wearing identical

costumes. They had black skull caps, loose white

blouses and trousers, black shoes. Their eyebrows

were black in dead white faces, even paler than

Elric's and they had bright red lips.

"Aha," whispered Werther, "the parrots are cele-

brating their victory. Soon they will be too drunk to

know what is happening to them."

"Parrots?" said Elric. "What is that word?"

"Pierrots, he means," said the Duke of Queens.

"Don't you, Werther?" There were evidently certain

words which did not translate easily into the High

Speech of Melnibone.

"Sshh," said the Last Romantic, "they will capture

us and torture us to death if they detect our presence."

They worked their way around the castle. It was

guarded at intervals by gigantic warriors whom Elric

at first mistook for statues, save that, when he looked

closely, he could see them breathing very slowly.

They were unarmed, but their fists and feet were

disproportionately large and could crush any intruder

they detected.

"They are sluggish, by the look of them," said

Elric. "If we are quick, we can run beneath them and

enter the castle before they realise it. Let me try first.

If I succeed, you follow."

Werther clapped his new comrade on the back.

"Very well."

Elric waited until the nearest guard halted and

spread his huge feet apart, then he dashed forward,

settling like an insect between the giant's legs and

flinging himself through a dimly lit window. He

found himself in some sort of storeroom. He had not

been seen, though the guard cocked his ear for half

a moment before resuming his pace.

Elric looked cautiously out and signalled to his

companions. The Duke of Queens waited for the

guard to stop again, then he, too, made for the

window and joined Elric. He was panting and grin-

ning. "This is wonderful," he said.

Elric admired his spirit. There was no doubt that

the guard could crush any of them to a pulp, even

if (as still nagged at his brain) this was all some sort

of complicated illusion.

Another dash, and Werther was with them.

Cautiously, Elric opened the door of the store-

room. They looked onto a deserted landing. They

crossed the landing and looked over a balustrade.

They had expected to see another hall, but instead

there was a miniature lake on which floated the

most beautiful miniature ship, all mother-of-pearl,

brass and ebony, with golden sails and silver masts.

Surrounding this ship were mermaids and mermen

bearing trays of exotic food (reminding Elric how

hungry he still was) which they fed to the ship's

only passenger, Mistress Christia.

"She is under an enchantment," said Elric. "They

beguile her with illusions so that she will not wish to

come with us even if we do rescue her. Do you

know no counter-spells?"

Werther thought for a moment. Then he shook his

head.

"You must be very minor Lords of Chaos," said

Elric, biting his lower lip.

From the lake, Mistress Christia giggled and drew

one of the mermaids towards her. "Come here, my

pretty piscine!"

"Mistress Christia!" hissed Werther de Goethe.

"Oh!" The captive widened her eyes (which were

now both large and blue). "At last!"

"You wish to be rescued?" said Elric.

"Rescued? Only by you, most alluring of albinoes!"

Elric hardened his features. "I am not the one who

loves you, madam."

"What? I am loved? By whom? By you, Duke of

Queens?"

"Sshh," said Elric. "The demons will hear us."

"Oh, of course," said Mistress Christia gravely,

and fell silent for a second. "I'll get rid of all this,

shall I?"

And she touched one of her rings.

Ship, lake and merfolk were gone. She lay on

silken cushions, attended by monkeys.

"Sorcery!" said Elric. "If she has such power, then

why?"

"It is limited," explained Werther. "Merely to such

tricks."

"Quite," said Mistress Christia.

Elric glared at them. "You surround me with illu-

sions. You make me think I am aiding you, when

really ..."

"No, no!" cried Werther. "I assure you, Lord Elric,

you have our greatest respectwell, mine at leastwe

are only attempting to"

There was a roar from the gallery above. Rank

upon rank of grinning demons looked down upon

them. They were armed to the teeth.

"Hurry!" The Duke of Queens leapt to the cush-

ions and seized Mistress Christia, flinging her over

his shoulder. "We can never defeat so many!"

The demons were already rushing down the circu-

lar staircase. Elric, still not certain whether his new

friends deceived him or not, made a decision. He

called to the Duke of Queens. "Get her from the

castle. We'll keep them from you for a few mo-

ments, at least." He could not help himself. He

behaved impulsively.

The Duke of Queens, sword in one hand, Mistress

Christia over the other shoulder, ran into a narrow

passage. Elric and Werther stood together as the

demons rushed down on them. Blade met blade.

There was an unbearable shrilling of steel mingled

with the cacklings and shrieks of the demons as they

gnashed their teeth and rolled their eyes and slashed

at the pair with swords, knives and axes. But worst

of all was the smell. The dreadful smell of burning

flesh which filled the air and threatened to choke

Elric. It came from the demons. The smell of Hell.

He did his best to cover his nostrils as he fought,

certain that the smell must overwhelm him before

the swords. Above him was a set of metal rungs

fixed into the stones, leading high into a kind of a

chimney. As a pause came he pointed upward to

Werther, who understood him. For a moment they

managed to drive the demons back. Werther jumped

onto Elric's shoulders (again displaying a strange

lightness) and reached down to haul the albino after

him.

While the demons wailed and cackled below, they

began to climb the chimney.

They climbed for nearly fifty feet before they found

themselves in a small, round room whose windows

looked out over the purple crags and, beyond them,

to a scene of bleak rocky pavements pitted with

holes, like some vast unlikely cheese.

And there, rolling over this relatively flat land-

scape, in full daylight (for the sun had risen) was the

Duke of Queens in a carriage of brass and wood,

studded with jewels, and drawn by two bovine crea-

tures which looked to Elric as if they might be the

fabulous oxen of mythology who had drawn the

warchariot of his ancestors to do battle with the

emerging nations of mankind.

Mistress Christia was beside the Duke of Queens.

They seemed to be waiting for Elric and Werther.

"It's impossible," said the albino. "We could not

get out of this tower, let alone those crags. I wonder

how they managed to move so quickly and so far.

And where did the chariot itself come from?"

"Stolen, no doubt, from the demons," said Werther.

"See, there are wings here." He indicated a heap of

feathers in the corner of the room. "We can use

those."

"What wizardry is this?" said Elric. "Man cannot

fly on bird wings."

''With the appropriate spell he can," said Werther.

"I am not that well versed in the magic arts, of

course, but let me see ..." He picked up one set of

wings. They were soft and glinted with subtle, rain-

bow colours. He placed them on Elric's back, mur-

muring his spell:

Oh, for the wings, for the wings of a dove,

To carry me to the one 1 love . . .

"There!" He was very pleased with himself. Elric

moved his shoulders and his wings began to flap.

"Excellent! Off you go, Elric. I'll join you in a

moment."

Elric hesitated, then saw the head of the first de-

mon emerging from the hole in the floor. He jumped

to the window ledge and leapt into space. The wings

sustained him. Against all logic he flew smoothly

towards the waiting chariot and behind him, came

Werther de Goethe. At the windows of the tower

the demons crowded, shaking fists and weapons as

their prey escaped them.

Elric landed rather awkwardly beside the chariot

and was helped aboard by the Duke of Queens.

Werther joined them, dropping expertly amongst

them. He removed the wings from the albino's back

and nodded to the Duke of Queens who yelled at

the oxen, cracking his whip as they began to move.

Mistress Christia flung her arms about Elric's neck.

"What courage! What resourcefulness!" she breathed.

"Without you, I should now be ruined!"

Elric sheathed Stormbringer. "We all three worked

together for your rescue, madam." Gently he re-

moved her arms. Courteously he bowed and leaned

against the far side of the chariot as it bumped and

hurtled over the peculiar rocky surface.

"Swifter! Swifter!" called the Duke of Queens cast-

ing urgent looks backward. "We are followed!"

From the disappearing tower there now poured a

host of flying, gibbering things. Once again the crea-

tures had changed shape and had assumed the form

of striped, winged cats, all glaring eyes, fangs and

extended claws.

The rock became viscous, clogging the wheels of

the chariot, as they reached what appeared to be a

silvery road, flowing between the high trees of an

alien forest already touched by a weird twilight.

The first of the flying cats caught up with them,

slashing.

Elric drew Stormbringer and cut back. The beast

roared in pain, blood streaming from its severed leg,

its wings flapping in Elric's face as it hovered and

attempted to snap at the sword.

The chariot rolled faster, through the forest to

green fields touched by the moon. The days were

short, it seemed, in this part of Chaos. A path

stretched skyward. The Duke of Queens drove the

chariot straight up it, heading for the moon itself.

The moon grew larger and larger and still the

demons pursued them, but they could not fly as fast

as the chariot which went so swiftly that sorcery

must surely speed it. Now they could only be heard

in the darkness behind and the silver moon was

huge.

"There!" called Werther. "There is safety!"

On they raced until the moon was reached, the

oxen leaping in their traces, galloping over the gleam-

ing surface to where a white palace awaited them.

"Sanctuary," said the Duke of Queens. And he

laughed a wild, full laugh of sheer joy.

The palace was like ivory, carved and wrought by

a million hands, every inch covered with delicate

designs.

Elric wondered. "Where is this place?" he asked.

"Does it lie outside the Realm of Chaos?"

Werther seemed non-plussed. "You mean our

world?"

"Aye."

"It is still part of our world," said the Duke of

Queens.

"Is the palace to your liking?" asked Werther.

"It is lovely."

"A trifle pale for my own taste," said the Last

Romantic. "It was Mistress Christia's idea."

"You built this?" the albino turned to the woman.

"When?"

"Just now." She seemed surprised.

Elric nodded. "Aha. It is within the power of

Chaos to create whatever whims it pleases."

The chariot crossed a white drawbridge and en-

tered a white courtyard. In it grew white flowers.

They dismounted and entered a huge hall, white as

bone, in which red lights glowed. Again Elric began

to suspect mockery, but the faces of the Chaos lords

showed only pleasure. He realised that he was dizzy

with hunger and weariness, as he had been ever

since he had been flung into this terrible world where

no shape was constant, no idea permanent.

"Are you hungry?" asked Mistress Christia.

He nodded. And suddenly the room was filled by

a long table on which all kinds of food were heaped

and everything, meats and fruits and vegetables,

was white.

Elric moved to take the seat she indicated and he

put some of the food on a silver plate and he touched

it to his lips and he tasted it. It was delicious. Forget-

ting suspicion, he began to eat heartily, trying not to

consider the colourless quality of the meal. Werther

and the Duke of Queens also took some food, but it

seemed they ate only from politeness. Werther

glanced up at the faraway roof. "What a wonderful

tomb this would make," he said. "Your imagination

improves, Mistress Christia."

"Is this your domain?" asked Elric. "The moon?"

"Oh, no," she said. "It was all made for the

occasion."

"Occasion?"

"For your adventure," she said. Then she fell silent.

Elric became grave. "Those demons? They were

not your enemies. They belong to you!"

"Belong?" said Mistress Christia. She shook her

head.

Elric frowned and pushed back his plate. "I am,

however, most certainly your captive." He stood up

and paced the white floor. "Will you not return me

to my own plane?"

"You would come back almost immediately," said

Werther de Goethe. "It is called the Morphail Effect.

And if you did not come here, you would yet remain

in your own future. It is in the nature of Time."

"This is nonsense," said Elric. "I have left my own

realm before and returnedthough admittedly mem-

ory becomes weak, as with dreams poorly recalled."

"No man can go back in Time," said the Duke of

Queens. "Ask Brannart Morphail."

"He, too, is a Lord of Chaos?"

"If you like. He is a colleague."

"Could he not return me to my realm? He sounds

a clever being."

"He could not and he would not," said Mistress

Christia. "Haven't you enjoyed your experiences here

so far?"

"Enjoyed?" Elric was astonished. "Madam, I think

. . . Well, what has happened this day is not what

we mortals would call 'enjoyment'!"

"But you seemed to be enjoying yourself," said the

Duke of Queens in some disappointment. "Didn't

he, Werther?"

"You were much more cheerful through the whole

episode," agreed the Last Romantic. "Particularly

when you were fighting the demons."

"As with many time-travellers who suffer from

anxieties," said Mistress Christia, "you appeared to

relax when you had something immediate to capture

your attention ..."

Elric refused to listen. This was clever Chaos talk,

meant to deceive him and take his mind from his

chief concern.

"If I was any help to you," he began, "I am, of

course ..."

"He isn't very grateful," Mistress Christia pouted.

Elric felt madness creeping nearer again. He calmed

himself.

"I thank you for the food, madam. Now, I would

sleep."

"Sleep?" she was disconcerted. "Oh! Of course.

Yes. A bedroom?"

"If you have such a thing."

"As many as you like." She moved a stone on one

of her rings. The walls seemed to draw back to show

bedchamber after bedchamber, in all manner of styles,

with beds of every shape and fashion. Elric con-

trolled his temper. He bowed, thanked her, said

goodnight to the two lords and made for the nearest

bed.

As he closed the door behind him, he thought he

heard Werther de Goethe say: "We must try to think

of a better entertainment for him when he wakes up."

11. In Which Mrs. Persson Witnesses The First Sign Of

The Megaflow's Disintegration

IN CASTLE CANARIA Lord Jagged unrolled his antique

charts. He had had them drawn for him by a baffled

astrologer in 1590. They were one of his many affec-

tations. At the moment, however, they were of con-

siderably greater use than Alvarez's electronics.

While he used a wrist computer to check his fig-

ures, Una Persson looked out of the window of

Castle Canaria and wondered who had invented this

particular landscape. A green and orange sun cast

sickening light over the herds of grazing beasts who

resembled, from this distance at any rate, nothing so

much as gigantic human hands. In the middle of the

scene was raised some kind of building in the shape

of a vast helmet, vaguely Greek in conception. Beyond

that was a low, grey moon. She turned away.

"I must admit," said Lord Jagged, "that I had not

understood the extent ..."

"Exactly," she said.

"You must forgive me. A certain amount of

amnesiaeuphoria, perhaps?always comes over

one in these very remote periods."

"Quite."

He looked up from the charts. "We've a few hours

at most."

Her smile was thin, her nod barely perceptible.

While she made the most of having told him so,

Lord Jagged frowned, turned a power ring and pro-

duced an already lit pipe which he placed thought-

fully in his mouth, taking it out again almost immedi-

ately. "That wasn't Dunhill Standard Medium." He

laid the pipe aside.

There came a loud buzzing noise from the win-

dow. The scene outside was disintegrating as if melt-

ing on glass. An eerie golden light spread everywhere,

flooding from an apex of deeper gold, as if forming a

funnel.

"That's a rupture," said Lord Jagged. His voice

was tense. He put his arm about her shoulders.

"I've never seen anything of the size before."

Rushing towards them along the funnel of light

there came an entire city of turrets and towers and

minarets in a wide variety of pastel colours. It was

set into a saucer-shaped base which was almost cer-

tainly several miles in circumference.

For a moment the city seemed to retreat. The

golden light faded. The city remained, some dis-

tance away, swaying a little as if on a gentle tide, a

couple of thousand feet above the ground, the grey

moon below it.

"That's what I call megaflow distortion," said Una

Persson in that inappropriately facetious tone adopted

by those who are deeply frightened.

"I recognise the period." Jagged drew a telescope

from his robes. "Second Candlemaker's Empire,

mainly based in Arcturus. This is a village by their

standards. After all, Earth was merely a rural park

during that time." He retreated into academe, his

own response to fear.

Una craned her head. "Isn't that some sort of

vehicle heading towards the city. From the moon

good heavens, they've spotted it already. Are they

going to try to put the whole thing into a menagerie?"

Jagged had the advantage of the telescope. "I think

not." He handed her the instrument.

Through it she saw a scarlet and black chariot

borne by what seemed to be some form of flying

fairground horses. In the chariot, armed to the teeth

with lances, bows, spears, swords, axes, morningstars,

maces and almost every other barbaric hand-weapon,

clad in quasi-mythological armour, were Werther de

Goethe, the Duke of Queens and Elric of Melnibone.

"They're attacking it!" she said faintly. "What will

happen when the two groups intersect?"

"Three groups," he pointed out. "Untangling that

in a few hours is going to be even harder."

"And if we fail?"

He shrugged. "We might just as well give our-

selves up to the biggest chronoquake the universe

has ever experienced."

"You're exaggerating," she said.

"Why not? Everyone else is."

12. The Attack On The Citadel Of The Skies

"MELNIBONE! MELNIBONE"! cried the albino as the char-

iot circled over the spires and turrets of the city.

They saw startled faces below. Strange engines were

being dragged through the narrow streets.

"Surrender!" Elric demanded.

"I do not think they can understand us," said the

Duke of Queens. "What a find, eh? A whole city

from the past!"

Werther had been reluctant to embark on an ad-

venture not of his own creation, but Elric, realising

that here at last was a chance of escape, had been

anxious to begin. The Duke of Queens had, in an

instant, aided the albino by producing costumes,

weapons, transport. Within minutes of the city's ap-

pearance, they had been on their way.

Exactly why Elric wished to attack the city, Werther

could not make out, unless it was some test of the

Melnibonean's to see if his companions were true

allies or merely pretending to have befriended him.

Werther was learning a great deal from Elric, much

more than he had ever learned from Mongrove,

whose ideas of angst were only marginally less no-

tional than Werther's own.

A broad, flat blue ray beamed from the city. It

singed one wheel of the chariot.

"Ha! They make sorcerous weapons," said Elric.

"Well, my friends. Let us see you counter with your

own power."

Werther obediently imitated the blue ray and sent

it back from his fingers, slicing the tops off several

towers. The Duke of Queens typically let loose a

different coloured ray from each of his extended ten

fingers and bored a hole all the way through the

bottom of the city so that fields could be seen below.

He was pleased with the effect.

"This is the power of the Gods of Chaos!" cried

Elric, a familiar elation filling him as the blood of old

Melnibone was fired. "Surrender!"

"Why do you want them to surrender?" asked the

Duke of Queens in some disappointment.

"Their city evidently has the power to fly through

the dimensions. If I became its lord I can force it to

return to my own plane," said Elric reasonably.

"The Morphail Effect . . ." began Werther, but

realised he was spoiling the spirit of the game.

"Sorry."

The blue ray came again, but puttered out and

faded before it reached them.

"Their power is gone!" cried Elric. "Your sorcery

defeats them, my lords. Let us land and demand

they honour us as their new rulers."

With a sigh, Werther ordered the chariot to set

down in the largest square. Here they waited until a

few of the citizens began to arrive, cautious and

angry, but evidently in no mood to give any further

resistance.

Elric addressed them. "It was necessary to attack

and conquer you, for I must return to my own Realm,

there to fulfill my great destiny. If you will take me

to Melnibone, I will demand nothing further from

you."

"One of us really ought to take a translation pill"

said Werther. "These people probably have no idea

where they are."

A meaningless babble came from the citizens. Elric

frowned. "They understand not the High Speech,"

he said. "I will try the Common Tongue." He spoke

in a language neither Werther, the Duke of Queens

nor the citizens of this settlement could understand.

He began to show signs of frustration. He drew

his sword Stormbringer. "By the Black Sword, know

that I am Elric, last of the royal line of Melnibone!

You must obey me. Is there none here who under-

stands the High Speech?"

Then, from the crowd, stepped a being far taller

than the others. He was dressed in robes of dark

blue and deepest scarlet and his face was haughty,

beautiful and full of evil.

"I speak the High Tongue," he said.

Werther and the Duke of Queens were non-plussed.

This was no one they recognised.

Elric gestured. "You are the ruler of the city?"

"Call me that, if you will."

"Your name?"

"I am known by many names. And you know me,

Elric of Melnibone, for I am your lord and your

friend."

"Ah," said Elric lowering his sword, "this is the

greatest deception of them all. I am a fool."

"Merely a mortal," said the newcomer, his voice

soft, amused and full of a subtle arrogance. "Are

these the renegades who helped you?"

"Renegades?" said Werther. "Who are you, sir?"

"You should know me, rogue lords. You aid a

mortal and defy your brothers of Chaos."

"Eh?" said the Duke of Queens. "I haven't got a

brother."

The stranger ignored him. "Demigods who thought

that by helping this mortal they could threaten the

power of the Greater Ones."

"So you did aid me against your own," said Elric.

"Oh, my friends!"

"And they shall be punished!"

Werther began: "We regret any damage to your

city. After all, you were not invited ..."

The Duke of Queens was laughing. "Who are

you? What disguise is this?"

"Know me for your master." The eyes of the

stranger glowed with myriad fires. "Know me for

Arioch, Duke of Hell!"

"Arioch!" Elric became filled with a strange joy.

"Arioch! I called upon thee and was not answered!"

"I was not in this Realm," said the Duke of Hell.

"I was forced to be absent. And while I was gone,

fools thought to displace me."

"I really cannot follow all this," said the Duke of

Queens. He set aside his mace. "I must confess I

become a trifle bored, sir. If you will excuse me."

"You will not escape me." Arioch lifted a languid

hand and the Duke of Queens was frozen to the

ground, unable to move anything save his eyes.

"You are interfering, sir, with a perfectly"

Werther too was struck dumb and paralysed.

But Elric refused to quail. "Lord Arioch, I have

given you blood and souls. You owe me . . ."

"I owe you nothing, Elric of Melnibone. Nothing I

do not choose to owe. You are my slave ..."

"No," said Elric. "I serve you. There are old bonds.

But you cannot control me, Lord Arioch, for I have a

power within me which you fear. It is the power of

my very mortality."

The Duke of Hell shrugged. "You will remain in

the Realm of Chaos forever. Your mortality will avail

you little here."

"You need me in my own Realm, to be your

agent. That, too, I know, Lord Arioch."

The handsome head lowered a fraction as if Arioch

considered this. The beautiful lips smiled. "Aye, Elric.

It is true that I need you to do my work. For the

moment it is impossible for the Lords of Chaos to

interfere directly in the world of mortals, for we

should threaten our own existence. The rate of en-

tropy would increase beyond even our control. The

day has not yet come when Law and Chaos must

decide the issue once and for all. But it will come

soon enough for you, Elric."

"And my sword will be at your service, Lord

Arioch."

"Will it, Elric?"

Elric was surprised by this doubting tone. He had

always served Chaos, as his ancestors had. "Why

should I turn against you? Law has no attractions for

one such as Elric of Melnibone."

The Duke of Hell was silent.

"And there is the bargain," added Elric. "Return

me to my own Realm, Lord Arioch, so that I might

keep it."

Arioch sighed. "I am reluctant."

"I demand it," bravely said the albino.

"Oho!" Arioch was amused. "Well, mortal, I'll

reward your courage and I'll punish your insolence.

The reward will be that you are returned from whence

you came, before you called on Chaos in your battle

with that pathetic wizard. The punishment is that

you will recall every incident that occurred since

thenbut only in your dreams. You will be haunted

by the puzzle for the rest of your lifeand you will

never for a moment be able to express what mysti-

fies you."

Elric smiled. "I am already haunted by a curse of that kind, my lord."

"Be that as it may, I have made my decision."

"I accept it," said the albino, and he sheathed his

sword, Stormbringer.

"Then come with me," said Arioch, Duke of Hell.

And he drifted forward, took Elric by the arm, and

lifted them both high into the sky, floating over

distorted scenes, half-formed dream-worlds, the

whims of the Lords of Chaos, until they came to a

gigantic rock shaped like a skull. And through one

of the eye-sockets Lord Arioch bore Elric of Melni-

bone. And down strange corridors that whispered

and displayed all manner of treasures. And up into a

landscape, a desert in which grew many strange

plants, while overhead could be seen a land of snow

and mountains, equally alien. And from his robes

Arioch, Duke of Hell produced a wand and he bade

Elric to take hold of the wand, which was hot to the

touch and glittered, and he placed his own slender

hand at the other end, and he murmured words

which Elric could not understand and together they

began to fade from the landscape, into the dark-

ness of limbo where many eyes accused them, to

an island in a grey and storm-tossed sea; an island

littered with destruction and with the dead.

Then Arioch, Duke of Hell, laughed a little and

vanished, leaving the Prince of Melnibone sprawled

amongst corpses and ruins while heavy rain beat

down upon him.

And in the scabbard at Elric's side, Stormbringer

stirred and murmured once more.

13. In Which There Is A Small Celebration At The End

Of Time

WERTHER DE GOETHE and the Duke of Queens blinked

their eyes and found that they could move their

heads. They stood in a large, pleasant room full of

charts and ancient instruments. Mistress Christia was

there, too.

Una Persson was smiling as she watched golden

light fade from the sky. The city had disappeared,

hardly any the worse for its experience. She had

managed to save the two friends without a great

deal of fuss, for the citizens had still been bewil-

dered by what had happened to them. Because of

the megaflow distortion, the Morphail Effect would

not manifest itself. They would never understand

where they had been or what had actually happened.

"Who on earth was that fellow who turned up?"

asked the Duke of Queens. "Some friend of yours,

Mrs. Persson? He's certainly no sportsman."

"Oh, I wouldn't agree. You could call him the

ultimate sportsman," she said. "I am acquainted with

him, as a matter of fact."

"It's not Jagged in disguise is it?" said Mistress

Christia who did not really know what had gone on.

"This is Jagged's castlebut where is Jagged?"

"You are aware how mysterious he is," Una an-

swered. "I happened to be here when I saw that

Werther and the Duke were in trouble in the city

and was able to be of help."

Werther scowled (a very good copy of Elric's own

scowl). "Well, it isn't good enough."

"It was a jolly adventure while it lasted, you must

admit," said the Duke of Queens.

"It wasn't meant to be jolly," said Werther."It

was meant to be significant."

Lord Jagged entered the room. He wore his famil-

iar yellow robes. "How pleasant," he said. "When

did all of you arrive?"

"I have been here for some time," Mrs. Pers-

son explained, "but Werther and the Duke of

Queens ..."

"Just got here," explained the duke. "I hope we're

not intruding. Only we had a slight mishap and Mrs.

Persson was good enough ..."

"Always delighted," said the insincere lord. "Would

you care to see my new?"

"I'm on my way home," said the Duke of Queens.

"I just stopped by. Mrs. Persson will explain."

"I, too," said Werther suspiciously, "am on my

way back."

"Very well. Goodbye."

Werther summoned an aircar, a restrained figure

of death, in rags with a sickle, who picked the

three up in his hand and bore them towards a bleak

horizon.

It was only days later, when he went to visit

Mongrove to tell him of his adventures and solicit

his friend's advice, that Werther realised he was still

speaking High Melnibonean. Some nagging thought

remained with him for a long while after that. It

concerned Lord Jagged, but he could not quite work

out what was involved.

After this incident there were no further disrup-

tions at the End of Time until the beginning of the

story concerning Jherek Carnelian and Miss Amelia

Underwood.

14. In Which Elric of Melnibone Recovers From a Variety

of Enchantments and Becomes Determined to Return

to the Dreaming City

ELRIC WAS awakened by the rain on his face. Wearily

he peered around him. To left and right there were

only the dismembered corpses of the dead, the Krettii

and the Filkharian sailors destroyed during his battle

with the halfbrute who had somehow gained so

much sorcerous power. He shook his milk-white

hair and he raised crimson eyes to the grey, boiling

sky.

It seemed that Arioch had aided him, after all. The

sorcerer was destroyed and he, Elric, remained alive.

He recalled the sweet, bantering tones of his patron

demon. Familiar tones, yet he could not remember

what the words had been.

He dragged himself over the dead and waded

through the shallows towards the Filkharian ship

which still had some of its crew. They were, by now,

anxious to head out into open sea again rather than

face any more terrors on Sorcerer's Isle.

He was determined to see Cymoril, whom he loved,

to regain his throne from Yyrkoon, his cousin . . .

15. In Which A Brief Reunion Takes Place At the Time

Centre

WITH THE manuscript of Colonel Pyat's rather dan-

gerous volume of memoirs safely back in her brief-

case, Una Persson decided it was the right moment

to check into the Time Centre. Alvarez should be on

duty again and his instruments should be registering

any minor imbalances resulting from the episode

concerning the gloomy albino.

Alvarez was not alone. Lord Jagged was there, in

a disreputable Norfolk jacket and smoking a battered

briar. He had evidently been holidaying in Victorian

England. He was pleased to see her.

Alvarez ran his gear through all functions. "Sweet

and neat," he said. "It hasn't been as good since

I don't know when. We've you to thank for that,

Mrs. P."

She was modest.

"Certainly not. Jagged was the one. Your disguise

was wonderful, Jagged. How did you manage to

imitate that character so thoroughly? It convinced

Elric. He really thought you were whatever it wasa

Chaos Duke?"

Jagged waved a modest hand.

"I mean," said Una, "it's almost as if you were this

fellow 'Arioch' ..."

But Lord Jagged only puffed on his pipe and smiled

a secret and superior smile.

The Last Enchantment

THROUGH THE blue and hazy night ran a shuddering

man. He clutched terror to him, his bloated eyes full

of blood. First behind him and then seemingly ahead

of him came the hungry chuckles, the high whis-

pered words.

"Here toothsome. Here sweetmeat."

He swerved in another direction, moaning. Like a

huge husk he was, like a hollow ornament of thin

bone, with his great, rolling head swaying on his

shoulders resembling a captive balloon, the wet cav-

ern of his wide mouth fully open and gasping, the

yellow spikes of teeth clashing in his head.

Awkwardly he ran, sometimes scuttling like a

wounded spider, something lurching, mooing to him-

self through the tall and ancient forest, his feet sink-

ing into the carpet of wet, pungent bracken and

rotting roots. He held in his hand, that long, white,

metal-coloured claw, a glowing black talisman, held

it out and cried:

"Oh Teshwanaid me, Teshwan. Aid me ..."

In the sluggish brew that was the contents of his

rolling skull a few words swam to the surface and

seemed to lie there, moving with the tide of his

mind. And the voice which spoke them was sar-

donic: "How can Teshwan aid thee, little mortal?"

But this relic of disoriented flesh could not form a

coherent thought; could not answer save to scream

its fear. So Teshwan took his presence away and it

was left to the horseman to find the horror-crazed

man.

Elric of Melnibone heard the voice and recognized

the name. He sensed other, more ominous, deni-

zens lurking about him in the forest.

Moodily he curled his hands about the reins of his

mount and jerked its head, guiding it in the direc-

tion of the screams. He only casually considered

aiding the man and he rode his horse toward him

more from curiosity than anything. Elric was un-

troubled by the terrors that the forest held, regard-

ing them as another, more normal man might regard

the omnipresent song of birds and the rustle of small

rodents in the undergrowth.

Great tremblings shuddered through Slorg's ruined

body and he still heard the sharp whisperings. Were

they carried on the air or were they slithering about

in his jellied brain?

He gasped as he turned and saw the white-faced

horseman riding like a grim, handsome god into the

moon-glazed glade.

The horseman's long, sharply delineated skull was

leperwhite, as if stripped of flesh, and his slightly

slanting eyes gleamed crimson. He wore a jerkin of

black velvet caught at the throat by a thin silver

chain. His britches, too, were of black cloth, and his

leather boots were high and shining. Over his shoul-

ders was a high-collared cape of scarlet and a heavy

longsword slapped at his side as he pulled his steed

to a standstill. His long, flowing hair was as white as

his face. The horseman was an albino.

The shock of confronting this new and more tangi-

ble figure jerked Slorg back into half-sanity and bro-

ken words sidled from his lips.

"Who are you? Aid me! I beg you, aid me!"

Elric laughed lightly. "Now why should I, my friend?

Tell me that."

"I have beenbeen profanedI am Slorg. I was

once a manbut those . . ."He rocked his body and

flung his rolling head backwards, the curved lids

falling down to cover his bulging eyes. "I have been

profaned ..."

Elric leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle

and said lazily: "This is none of my business, Master

Slorg."

The great head darted forward, the eyes snapped

open and Slorg's long lips writhed over his teeth like

a camel's. "Address not me by a mundane title! I am

Siletah SlorgSiletah of Oberlornrightfullyright-

fully."

The title was unknown to Elric.

"My apologies, O Siletah," he mocked, "for now I

observe a man of rank."

"A man no longer," whispered Slorg and began to

sob. "Help me."

"Are you, then, in danger?"

"Aye, dangermy kinsmen have set the Hungry

Whisperers upon me, do you not hear them?"

And Elric cocked his head to listen. Yes, he heard

sibilant voices now. "Where are you, morsel?"

"Oh, help me, help me," begged Slorg and lurched

toward Elric. The albino drew himself up and pulled

his horse back.

"No closer," he warned. "I am Elric of Melnibone."

Slorg's tattered face squeezed itself into a frown.

"Ah, the name and the face," he mumbled to him-

self, "the face and the name. Elric of Melnibone.

Outcast!"

"Indeed," smiled Elric, "but no more than you, it

seems. Now I must bid you farewell and suggest, by

way of friendly advice, that you compose yourself

soon. It is better to die with dignity, Siletah Slorg,"

"I have powers, outcast of MelniboneI have pow-

ers, still! Help me and I will tell you secretssuch

secrets!"

Elric waved a disdainful hand. A moonbeam caught

for an instant the flash of the rare actorios ring

which reposed on his finger. "If you know me, you

should also know that I'm no merchant to bargain. I

ask nothing and give nothing. Farewell!"

"I warn you, ElricI have one power left. I can

send you screaming from this placeinto another. It

is the power which Teshwan gives all his servantsit

is the one he never takes back!"

"Why not send your hungry friends into this other

place?"

"They are not human. But if you leave me, I shall

lay my last enchantment upon you."

Elric sighed. "Your last, perhaps, but not the last

or the first to be laid upon me. Now I must go and

search for a quieter place than this where I can sleep

undisturbed."

He turned his horse and his back on the shaking

remnant of a man and rode away.

He heard Slorg calling again as he entered another

part of the forest, untainted by the Siletah or those

he had termed the Hungry Whisperers.

"Teshwanreturn! Return to do me one last

servicea deed of vengeancea part of our bargain,

Teshwan!"

A short time later Elric heard a thin, wailing scream

come flowing out of the night behind him and then

the whole forest seemed alive with horrible laughter.

Satiated, triumphant, chuckling.

His mood altered by his encounter, Elric rode through

night, not caring to sleep, and came out of the forest

in the morning, glad of the sight of the green pla-

teau stretching ahead of him.

"Well," he mused, "Teshwan disdained to aid

Slorg and it seems there is no enchantment on me. I

am half regretful. Now Slorg resides in the bellies of

those he feared and his soul's at home in Hell."

Then the plateau changed quite suddenly to grey

rock.

Swiftly Elric wheeled his horse. The plateau and

the forest was behind him. He spurred his mount

quickly forward and the plateau and forest faded

away to leave a vast and lonely expanse of flat, grey

stone. Above him the sun had disappeared and the

sky was bright and white and cold.

"Now," said Elric grimly into silence, "it seems I

was wrong in my assumption."

The plateauits atmospherereminded him of an-

other environment in which he had once found him-

self. Then he remembered clearly a time years before

when he and two companions had sought an an-

cient volume called the Dead God's Book. Their quest-

ing had led them to a cavern guarded at its entrance

by the symbol of the Lords of Chaos. In that cavern

they had discovered an underground sea which had

had unnatural qualities. There was the same sense

of a sardonically amused presence here as there had

been in the Caverns of Chaos.

Teshwan was a Lord of Chaos.

Hastily Elric pulled his runesword Stormbringer

from its thick scabbard.

The sword was dead.

Normally the blade, forged by unhuman smiths

for Elric's royal ancestors, was alive with sentience

throbbing with the life force it had stolen from a

hundred men and women whom Elric had slain.

Once before it had been like thisin the Caverns of

Chaos long ago.

Elric tightened his lips, then shrugged as he re-

placed the sword in its scabbard.

"In a world completely dominated by the Forces

of Chaos," he said, "I cannot rely on the powers

which normally aid me in my sorcery. Thank Arioch

I have a good supply of drugs about me, or I would

indeed be doomed."

In earlier times Elric had relied on his soul-stealing

runesword to give him the energy which, as an

albino, he lacked intrinsically, but recently he had

rediscovered a cleaner way of counteracting his defi-

ciency, by taking herbs he had discovered in the

Forest of Troos where many unlikely things grew,

both flora and fauna.

"By my father's plague-infested bones," he swore.

"I must find a way off this granite plain and discover

who, if anyone, rules in this world. I have heard of

the powers invested in Teshwan's worshippersand

I seem to remember a hint of why the Lords of

Chaos confer such peculiar talents upon them."

He shuddered.

He began to sing a ululating hate-song of old

Melnibone. Elric's ancestors had been clever haters.

And on he rode beneath the sunless sky.

He could not tell how much time had passed be-

fore he saw the figure standing out strongly against

the featureless horizon.

Now on the flat waste of stone there were two

points at which the monotony was broken.

Elricwhite, black and scarlet on a grey gelding.

The morose man, black hair lying like a coat of

lacquer on his rounded skull, dressed in green, a

silver sword dangling in his right hand.

Elric approached the man who raised his eyes to

regard the albino.

"This is a lonely place," said the stranger, sucking

at his fleshy cheeks, and he stared at the ground

again.

"True," replied Elric halting his horse. "Is this

your world or were you sent here, also?"

"Oh, it's my world," said the man, without look-

ing up. "Where are you bound?"

"For nowhere, seeking something. Where do you

journey?"

"Ioh, I go to Kaneloon for the Rites, of course."

"All things, it is said, are possible in the World of

Chaos," Elric murmured, "and yet this place seems

unusually barren."

The man looked up suddenly, and jerking his lips

into a smile, laughed sharply.

"The Rites will alter that, stranger. Did you not

know that this is the Time of The Change, when the

Lords of Chaos rest before re-forming the world into

a fresh variety of patterns?"

"I did not know that," said Elric. "I have come

here only recently."

"You wish to stay?"

"No."

"The Lords of Chaos are fickle. If you wished to

stay they might not let you. Now that you are re-

solved to leave, they might keep you here. Farewell.

You will find me therein!" He lifted his sword and

pointed. A great palace of greenstone appeared at

once. The man vanished.

"This, at least, will save me from boredom," Elric

said philosophically, and rode towards the palace.

The many-pinnacled building towered above him,

its highest points hazy and seeming to possess many

forms, shifting as if blown by a wind. At the great

arch of the entrance a huge giant, semi-transparent,

with a red, scintillating skin, blocked his way. Over

the archway, as if hanging in the air above the giant's

proud head, was the Symbol of Chaos, a circle which

produced many arrows pointing in all directions.

"Who visits the Palace of Kaneloon at the Time of

the Change?" enquired the giant in a voice like lim-

bo's music.

"Your masters, I gather, know mefor they aided

their servant Slorg in sending me hither. But tell

them it is Elric of Melnibone, nonethelessElric,

destroyer of dreaming Imrryr, kinslayer and outcast.

They will know me."

The giant appeared to shrink, to solidify and then

to drift in a red mist, pouring like sentient smoke

away from the portal and into the palace. And where

he had been a portcullis manifested itself to guard

the palace in the giant's absence.

Elric waited patiently until at length the portcullis

vanished and the giant reformed himself.

"My masters order me to inform you that you may

enter but that, having once come to the Palace of

Kaneloon, you may never leave save under certain

conditions."

"Those conditions?"

"Of these they will tell you if you enter. Are you

recklessor will you stand pondering?"

"I'll avail myself of their generosity," smiled Elric

and spurred his nervous horse forward.

As he entered the courtyard, it appeared that the

area within the palace was greater than that outside

it. Not troubling to seek any mundane explanation

for this phenomenon in a world dominated by the

Lords of Chaos, Elric instead dismounted from his

horse and walked for nearly a quarter of a mile until

he reached the entrance of the main building. He

climbed the steps swiftly and found himself in a vast

hall which had walls of shifting flame.

In the glow from the fiery walls, there sat at a

table at the far end of the hall nine menor at least,

men or not, they had assumed the form of men.

Different in facial characteristics, they all had the

same sardonic air. In the centre of these nine was

the one who had first addressed Elric. He leaned

forward and spoke words carefully from his red lips.

"Greetings to you, mortal," he said. "You are the

first for some time to sit with the Lords of Chaos at

the Time of the Change. Beholdthere are others

who have had the privilege."

A rent appeared in the wall of flame to disclose

some thirty frozen human figures, some men and

some women. They were petrified in positions of

many kinds, but all had madness and terror in their

eyesand they were still alive, Elric knew.

He lifted his head.

"I would not be so impertinent, my lords, as to set

myself beside you all insofar as powers are con-

cerned, but you know that I am Elric of Melnibone

and that my race is old; my deficient blood is the

royal blood of the Kings of the Dreaming City. I

have little pity or sentiment of any kind within me,

for sentiment, whether love or hate, has served me

badly in the past. I do not know what you require of

me, and I thank you for your hospitality nonethe-

less, but I believe that I can conduct myself better in

most ways than can any other mortal."

"Let us hope so, Elric of Melnibone, for we would

not wish you to fail, know that. Besides, you are not

fully mortal as humans understand the word. Now,

know you that I be Teshwan, and these need not be

named and may be addressed singly or collectively

by the name of Lords of Chaos."

Elric bowed politely. "Lord Teshwanmy Lords

of Chaos."

They returned his bow by slightly inclining their

heads and broadening a trifle their sardonic, crooked

smiles.

"Come," said Teshwan briskly, "sit here beside

me and I will inform you of what we expect. You are

more favoured than others have been, Elric, and, in

truth, I welcomed the opportunity given me by my

vengeful servant Slorg before he died."

Elric climbed upon the dais and seated himself in

the chair which appeared beside Teshwan. About

him the walls of flame soared and tumbled, mum-

bled and roared. Sometimes shadow engulfed them,

sometimes they were bathed in light. For a while

they all sat in silence, pondering.

At last Teshwan spoke.

"Now," he said decisively. "Here's the situation

in which we have decided to place you. You may

leave only if you can create something which it has

never occurred to us to create."

"But you, surely, are the Masters of Creation?"

said Elric in puzzlement. "How may I do this?"

"Your first statement is not strictly true and in

qualifying it I can give you a hint of the answer to

your question. We of Chaos cannot make anything

newwe may only experiment with combinations of

that already created. Do you understand?"

"I do," said Elric.

"Only the Greatest Power, of which we know

little more than do humans, can create fresh concep-

tions. The Greatest Power holds both Law and Chaos

in perpetual balance, making us war only so that the

scale will not be tilted too far to one side. We wish

not for poweronly for variety. Thus every time we

weary of our domain and let our old creations fade

and conceive new ones. If you can bring a fresh

element to our domain, we shall free you. We create

jokes and paradoxes. Conceive a better joke and a

better paradox for our entertainment and you may

leave here."

"Surely you expect the impossible from me?"

"You alone may assess the truth of your question.

Now, we begin."

And Elric sat and watched, pondering his problem,

as the great Lords of Chaos began their mighty

experiments.

The walls of fire slowly flickered and faded and

again he saw the vast and barren plain of flat stone.

Then the air darkened and a sighing wind began to

moan over the plain. In the sky clouds blossomed in

myriad shapes, alien, dark, unfamiliar, blacks and

smoky orange, at the same time familiar . . .

The rock heaved like lava, became liquid, rearing

upwards and as it reared it became giants, moun-

tains, ancient beasts, monsters, gryphons, basilisks,

chimerae, unicorns. Forests bloomed, their growths

huge and exotic, elephants flew and great birds

crushed boiling mountains beneath their feet. Fin-

gers of brilliant colour climbed the sky, criss-crossing

and blending. A flight of wildly singing lions fell

from the firmament towards the forest and soared

upwards again, their music lonely.

As the forest melted to become an ocean, a vast

army of wizened homunculae came tramping from

its depths dragging boats behind them. For a short

while they marched over the seething waters and

then, with precision, began, in ordered style, to climb

into the flaring sky. When they had all left the ocean

behind them, they righted their boats, set their sails,

laughed and screamed and shouted, waved their

arms, climbed into the boats and with fantastic speed

streamed towards the horizon.

All creation tumbled and poured, malleable in the

Domain of Chaos. All was gusto, craze and roaring

terror, love, hate and music mingled.

The sky shook with multi-coloured mirth, blos-

soming white shot through with veins of blue and

purple and black, searing red, splattered with spread-

ing flowers of yellow, smeared, smeared, smeared

with ghoulish green. Across this seething backdrop

sped bizarre shapes.

The Lords of Chaos shouted and sang their weird

creation and Elric, shouting also, thought the frozen

statues he had seen were weeping and laughing.

A grotesque combination of man and tree sent

roots streaming towards the earth to tug mountains

from the caverns it exposed and set them, peak first,

like inverted pyramids, into the ground. Upon the

flat surfaces dancers appeared in bright rags which

fluttered and flared around them. They were warped,

unhuman, pale as dead beauty, grinning fixedly and

then Elric saw the strings attached to their limbs and

the silently laughing puppet-master bearlike and gi-

gantic, controlling them. From another direction sped

a small, blind figure bearing a scythe that was a

hundred times bigger than the bearer. With a sweep,

he cut the strings and, with that action, the whole

faded to be replaced by a gushing brilliance of green

and orange flame which formed itself into streamers

of zigzagging disorder.

All this went on around them. The Lords of Chaos

smiled to themselves now, as they created, but Elric

frowned, watched with wonder and no little plea-

sure, but puzzled how he might emulate such feats.

For long hours the pageant of Chaos continued as

the Lords took the elements of Elric's world and

shook them about, turned them inside out, stood

them on end, made startling, strange, beautiful, un-

holy combinations until they were satisfied with the

constant movement of the scene about them, the

perpetual shifting and changing. They had set a

pattern that was no pattern, which would last until

they became bored with their domain again and

brought about another Time of the Change.

Then their heads turned and all regarded Elric

expectantly.

Teshwan said a trifle wearily. "Thereyou have

seen what we can do."

"You are artists, indeed," said Elric, "and I am so

amazed by what I have witnessed that I need a little

time to think. Will you grant it me?"

"A little timea little time onlywe want to see

what you prepare for us while the excitement is still

upon us."

And Elric placed his white albino's head upon his

fist and thought deeply.

Many ideas occurred to him, only to be discarded,

but at length he straightened his back and said:

"Give me the power to create and I will create."

So Teshwan said smilingly. "You have the power

use it well. A joke and a paradox is all we require."

"The reward for failure?"

"To be forever conscious."

At this, Elric shivered and put his mind to concen-

trating, searching his memory until a manlike figure

formed before him. Then he placed features on its

head and clothes on its body until there stood before

Elric and the Lords of Chaos a perfect replicaof

Elric.

Puzzledly, Teshwan said: "This is splendid imper-

tinence, I grant youbut this is nothing newyou

already sit there beside us."

"Indeed," replied Elric, "but look in the man's

mind."

They frowned and did as he asked. Then, smiling,

they nodded. "The paradox is good," said Teshwan,

"and we see your point. We have, for an eternity,

created the effect. You, in your pride and innocence,

have created the cause. In that man's mind was all

that could ever exist."

"You have noted the paradox?" asked Elric, anx-

ious that the correct interpretation had been divulged.

"Of course. For though the mind contains the

variety beloved of we of Chaos, it contains the order

that those barren Lords of Law would foist on the

world. Truly, young mortal, you have created every-

thing with a stroke. And thank you, also, for the

joke."

"The joke?"

"Why truly the best joke is but a simple state-

ment of truth. Farewell. Remember, friend mortal,

that the Lords of Chaos are grateful to you."

And with that, the whole domain faded away and

Elric stood on the grassy plain. In the distance he

observed the city of Bakshaan which had been his

original destination, and nearby was his horse to

take him there.

He mounted, flapped the reins, and, as the grey

gelding broke into a trot, he said to himself: "A joke

indeed, but it is a pity that men do not laugh at it

more often."

Reluctantly, he headed for the city.

The Secret Life of Elric of Melnibone

SOME YEARS ago, when I was about eighteen, I wrote

a novel called The Golden Barge. This was an allegori-

cal fantasy about a little man completely without

self-knowledge and with little of any other kind,

going down a seemingly endless river, following a

great Golden Barge which he felt, if he caught it

would contain all truth, all secrets, all solutions to

his problems. On the journey he met various groups

of people, had a love affair, and so on. Yet every

action he took in order to reach the Golden Barge

seemed to keep him farther away from it. The river

represented Time, the barge was what mankind is

always seeking outside itself (when it can be found

inside itself), etc., etc. The novel had a sad ending,

as such novels do. Also, as was clear when I'd fin-

ished it, my handling of many of the scenes was

clumsy and immature. So I scrapped it and decided

that in future my allegories would be intrinsic within

a conventional narrativethat the best symbols were

the symbols found in familiar objects. Like swords

for instance.

Up until I was twenty or so, I had a keen interest

in fantasy fiction, particularly Sword-and-Sorcery sto-

ries of the kind written by Robert E. Howard, Clark

Ashton Smith and the like, but this interest began to

wane as I became more interested in less directly

sensational forms of literature, just as earlier my

interest in Edgar Rice Burroughs' tales had waned. I

could still enjoy one or two Sword-and-Sorcery tales,

particularly Poul Anderson's The Broken Sword and

Fritz Leiber's Grey Mouser stories. A bit before this

casting off of old loyalties, I had been in touch with

Sprague De Camp and Hans Santessen of fantastic

Universe about doing a new series of Conan tales.

I think it was in the autumn of 1960, when I was

working for Sexton Blake Library and reading SF for

Suspense (the short-lived companion to Argosy) that I

bumped into a colleague at Fleetway Publications,

Andy Vincent, who was an old friend of Harry Har-

rison's (who had also freelanced for Fleetway for

some time). Andy told me he was meeting Harry

and Ted Carnell in the Fleetway foyer and suggested

I went along. As I remember, that was where I first

met Harry. Previously, I'd sold a couple of stories to

Ted, one in collaboration with Barry Bayley, and had

had more bounced than bought. Later on in a pub,

Ted and I were talking about Robert E. Howard and

Ted said he'd been thinking of running some Conan-

type stuff in Science Fantasy. I told him of the fantas-

tic Universe idea which had fallen through when

Fantastic Universe folded, and said I still had the stuff

I'd done and would he like to see it. He said he

would. A couple of days later I sent him the first

chapter and outline of a Conan story. To tell you the

truth, writing in Howard's style had its limitations,

as did his hero as far as I was concerned, and I

wasn't looking forward to producing another 10,000

words of the story if Ted liked it.

Ted liked itor at least he liked the writing, but

there had been a misunderstanding. He hadn't

wanted Conanhe had wanted something on the

same lines.

This suited me much better. I decided that I would

think up a hero as different as possible from the

usual run of S-and-S heroes, and use the narrative as

a vehicle for my own "serious' ideas. Many of these

ideas, I realise how, were somewhat romantic and

coloured by a long drawn-out and, to me, at the

time, tragic love affair which hadn't quite finished its

course and which was confusing and darkening my

outlook. I was writing floods of hack work for

Fleetway and was getting sometimes 70 or 80 a

week which was going on drink mainly, and, as

I remember, involved rather a lot of broken glass

of one description or another. I do remember,

with great pride, my main achievement of the

winter of 1960 or 1961, which was to smash en-

tirely an unbreakable plate-glass door in a well-known

restaurant near Piccadilly. And the management

apologised . . .

I mention this, to give a picture of my mood at the

time of Elric's creation. If you've read the early Elric

stories in particular, you'll see that Elric's outlook

was rather similar to mine. My point is, that Elric

was me (the me of 1960-1, anyway) and the mingled

qualities of betrayer and betrayed, the bewilderment

about life in general, the search for some solution to

it all, the expression of this bewilderment in terms of

violence, cynicism and the need for revenge, were

all characteristic of mine. So when I got the chance

to write The Dreaming City, I was identifying very

closely with my hero-villain. I thought myself some-

thing of an outcast (another romantic notion largely

unsubstantiated now that I look back) and emphasised

Elric's physical differences accordingly:

His bizarre dress was tasteless and gaudy, and

did not match his sensitive face and long-

fingered, almost delicate hands, yet he flaunted

it since it emphasised that he did not belong in

any companythat he was an outsider and an

outcast. But, in reality, he had little need to

wear such outlandish gearfor . . . (he) was a

pure albino who drew his power from a secret

and terrible source.

(Stealer of Souls, page 13)

The story was packed with personal symbols (as

are all the stories bar a couple). The "secret and

terrible source" was the sword Stormbringer, which

symbolised my own and others tendency to rely on

mental and physical crutches rather than cure the

weakness at source. To go further, Elric, for me,

symbolised the ambivalence of mankind in general,

with its love-hates, its mean-generosity, its confident-

bewilderment act. Elric is a thief who believes himself

robbed, a lover who hates love. In short, he cannot

be sure of the truth of anything, not even of his own

emotions or ambitions. This is made much clearer in

a story containing even more direct allegory, the

second in the series, While the Gods Laugh. Unfortu-

nately, Ted left out the verse from which the title

was taken:

I, while the gods laugh, the world's vortex am;

Maelstrom of passions in that hidden sea,

Whose waves of all-time lap the coasts of me,

And in small compass the dark waters cram.

Mervyn Peake (Shapes and Sounds)

This, I think, gave more meaning to both title and

story which involved a long quest after the Dead

God's Booka mythical work alleged to contain all

the knowledge of the universe, in which Elric feels,

he will at last find the true meaning of life. He

expresses this need in a somewhat rhetorical way.

When the wingless woman Shaarilla asks him why

he wants the book he replies:

"I desire, if you like, to know one of (mis-

printed as or in magazine version) two things.

Does an ultimate God exist or not? Does Law or

Chaos govern our lives? Man needs a God, so

the philosophers tell us. Have they made one

or did one make them?" etc., etc.

Here, as in other passages, the bewilderment is

expressed in metaphysical terms, for at that time,

due mainly to my education I was very involved

with mysticism. Also, the metaphysical terms suited

the description of a Sword-and-Sorcery hero and his

magical, low-technology world.

It may seem odd that I use such phrases as "at that

time" and so on, as if I'm referring to the remote

past, but in many ways, being a trifle more mature,

perhaps, happily married with a better sense of di-

rection, etc., all this does seem to have taken place in

the remote past.

The Dead God's Book is eventually located in a

vast underground world which I had intended as a

womb-symbol, and after a philosophical conversa-

tion with the book's keeper, Elric discovers it. This

passage is, to me now, rather overwritten, but, for

better or worse:

It was a huge bookthe Dead God's Book, its

covers encrusted with alien gems from which

the light sprang. It gleamed, it throbbed with

light and brilliant colour.

"At last," Elric breathed. "At lastthe truth!"

He stumbled forward like a man made stupid

with drink, his pale hands reaching for the

thing he sought with such savage bitterness.

His hands touched the pulsating cover of the

Book and, trembling, turned it back . . . With a

crash, the cover fell to the floor, sending the

bright gems skipping and dancing over the pav-

ing stone. Beneath Elric's . . . hands lay nothing

but a pile of yellowish dust.

The Dead God's Book and the Golden Barge are

one and the same. They have no real existence, save

in the wishful imagination of mankind. There is, the

story says, no Holy Grail which will transform a

man overnight from bewildered ignorance to com-

plete knowledgethe answer already is within him,

if he cares to train himself to find it. A rather over-

emphasised fact, throughout history, but one gener-

ally ignored all the same.

The Stealer of Souls, the third story, continues this

theme, but brought in rather different kinds of sym-

bols. Coupled with the Jungian symbols already in-

herent in any tale using direct mythic material, I

used Freudian symbols, too. This was a cynical at-

tempt and a rather vulgar attempt to make the series

popular. It appeared to work. The Stealer of Souls,

whatever else it may be, is one of the most porno-

graphic stories I have ever written. In Freudian terms

it is the description of, if you like, a night's love-

making.

Which brings me to another point. Although there

is comparatively little direct description of sexual

encounters in the stories and what there are are

largely romanticised, the whole Elric saga has, in its

choice of situations and symbols, very heavy sexual

undertones. This is true of most Sword-and-Sorcery

stories, but I have an idea that I may be the first

such author to understand his material to this ex-

tent, to know what he's using. If I hadn't been a bit

fed-up by the big response received by The Stealer of

Souls (magazine story, not the book) I could have

made even greater use of what I discovered.

Other critics have pointed out the close relation-

ship the horror story (and often the SF story for that

matter) has with the pornographic story, so there's

no need to go any deeper into it here.

The pornographic content of the Elric saga doesn't

interest me much, but I have hinted at the relation-

ship between sex and violence in several stories, and

indeed, there are a dozen syndromes to be found in

the stories, particularly if you bear in mind my own

involvement with sexual love, expression in violence,

etc., at the time the stories were first conceived.

Even my own interpretation of what I was doing is

open to interpretation, in this case!

The allegory goes through all ten stories (includ-

ing To Rescue Tanelorn which did not feature Elric) in

Science Fantasy, but it tends to change its emphasis as

my own ideas take better shape and my emotions

mature. When, in the last Elric story of all, the sword,

his crutch, Stormbringer turns and slays Elric it is

meant to represent, on one level, how mankind's

wish-fantasies can often bring about the destruction

of (till now at least) part of mankind. Hitler, for in-

stance, founded his whole so-called "political" creed

on a series of wish-fantasies (this is detailed in that

odd book Dawn of Magic, recently published here).

Again this is an old question, a bit trite from being

asked too often, maybe, but how much of what we

believe is true and how much is what we wish were

true. Hitler dreamed of his Thousand Year Reich,

Chamberlain said There Will Be No War. Both were

convincedboth ignored plain fact to a frightening

extent, just as many people (not just politicians whose

public statements are not always what they really

believe) ignore plain facts today. This is no new

discovery of mine. It is probably one of the oldest

discoveries in the world. But, in part, this is what

nearly all my published work points out. Working,

as I did once, as editor of a party journal (allegedly

an information magazine for party candidates) this

conviction was strengthened. The build-up of a fan-

tasy is an odd process and sometimes happens, to

digress a bit, like this.

The facts are gathered, related, a picture emerges.

The picture, though slightly coloured by the person-

alities of the fact-relaters, is fairly true. The picture is

given to the politician. If the politician is a man of

integrity he will not deliberately warp the facts, but

he will present them in a simplified version which

will be understood by the general public (he thinks).

This involves a selection, which can change a picture

out of all recognition, though the politician didn't

deliberately intend to warp the facts. The other kind

of politician almost automatically selects and warps

in order to prove a point he, or his party, is trying to

make. So the fantasy begins. Soon the real picture is

almost irrevocably lost.

Therefore this reliance on pseudo-knowledge which

seems to prove something we wish were true, is a

dangerous thing to do.

This is one of the main messages of the Elric

series, though there are several others on different

levels.

Don't think I'm asking you to go back over the

stories looking for these allegories and symbols. The

reason I abandoned The Golden Barge was because

among other things-it wasn't entertaining. The Elric

stories are meant to entertain as much as anything

else, but if anyone cares to look for substance beyond

the entertainment level, they might find it.

One of the main reasons, though, for taking this

angle when Alan (Dodd) asked me to write a piece

on Elric, was because I have been a little disap-

pointed at the first book being dismissed by some

professional critics (who evidently didn't bother to

read it closely, if at all) as an imitation of Conan.

When you put thought and feeling into a story

thought and feeling which is yoursyou don't much

care for being called an imitator or a plagiarist how-

ever good or bad the story. Probably the millionth

novel about a young advertising executive in love

with a deb and involved with a married woman has

just been published, yet the author won't be accused

of imitating anyone or plagiarising anyone. It is the

use to which one puts one's chosen material, not

that material, which matters.

SOJAN

THE

SWORDSMAN

1. Daughter of a Warrior King

A MYAT trotted peacefully across the broad, seem-

ingly never-ending plain which made up the land-

scape as far as it was possible to see. No sound

issued from the cloven hoofs, muffled by the moss-

like substance which clothed the ground in a mantle

of vivid colourpurple, green and yellow, with a

trace of crimson or violet here and there. Nothing

grew upon that plain. It was a wilderness, barren,

desertedthe greatest desert on the planet of Zylor.

A wandering warrior sat astride the myat's broad

back. At his steed's side hung a shield, a virtually

unknown accoutrement on Zylor, but the tribe to

which Sojan belonged had perfected it as a valuable

asset. The beast upon which he rode was a big,

sturdy animal. From both sides of its huge head

grew long sharp horns, curving outward. More like

a reptile than a mammal, its head tapered like a

snake's, its tail was thick and it, too, tapered.

Sojan was clothed in a bright blue jerkin reaching

to his knees, his legs were bare and tough boots of

myat hide were upon his feet, reaching to about two

inches from his knees. Over the jerkin was a leather

harness of simple designtwo straps across his shoul-

ders, coming to the waist and attached to a broad

belt whereupon hung his weaponsa sword, a dirk,

long and sharp, and a holster containing his big,

round-butted air-pistol.

The mercenary's hair was long and held by a fillet

of leather. At the back of his big saddle were two

saddle-bags, a container of water and, rolled across

these, his crimson cloak.

The man himself was tall, broad-shouldered and

slim-waisted with smooth muscles rippling beneath

his jerkin. The perfect fighting-man, keen-eyed and

wary.

Suddenly Sojan caught a flash of marble to the

west and knew that he had sighted Vermlot, the

capital city of Hatnor, the greatest warrior nation of

a warrior world. A rich city, was Vermlot, rich in

fighting-men and weapons of war, rich in terms of

gold, rich in beauty and splendour.

As he neared the city walls a guard bade him halt

and state his business.

"I come in peace," he cried, "to offer my sword,

my loyalty and my life to his Imperial Highness, the

War Lord of Hatnor. I am a mercenary, my only

possessions are the clothes I wear, the weapons I

carry and the myat I ride. I have travelled half a

world to offer my services to your ruler!"

He was admitted to the city and made his way to

one of the many taverns situated within the protec-

tion of the mighty walls. His strange protective

weapon aroused much interest. A certain warrior

made mock of him and his shield.

"Oh!" he laughed. "What a brave mercenary! He

has travelled half a worldto give us his protection

for with his great shield in front of him he will be

able to withstand all our enemies. Perhaps he cannot

fight without it. That's so, is it not, mercenary?"

Sojan halted, and gazed up at the man who was

leaning against a pillar on the balcony above.

Grimly, quietly, he spoke, but his tones were cold

and his words were acid.

"I do not like your attitude," he said. "And I like

your words less. Draw your swordif you know

how to use itand defend yourself! Perhaps you

will be hiding behind the shield before I have fin-

ished with you!"

The warrior stiffened and his face flushed: he put

one hand on the balcony rail and vaulted into the

street below, drawing his long "vilthor", a sabre-like

weapon, as he did so.

Sojan unslung his shield from the myat and drew

his own long blade. The warrior of the Palace struck

first, aiming a wicked slash at Sojan's legs with his

curved vilthor but the mercenary from Ilthoth jumped

high in the air and attacked the other with a weav-

ing arc of steel, driving him further and further

back. Then the man saw his chance and slashed at

an exposed limb of the mercenary's, but was too

slow. There was a dull thud as the sword hit and

rebounded from the shield, then he was made to

duck beneath a vicious slash from Sojan.

The Vermlotian slowly lost ground until with a

flick of his wrist Sojan disarmed his opponent. Then,

from a second-storey window a figure dropped, first

to the balcony of the first-storey and from there to

the ground. He removed his cloak and, with a smile

upon his lips, came forward with drawn sword.

"I fancy you will not disarm me so quickly."

This time Sojan was not so lucky for the new-

comer was as quick as the proverbial cobra. His

sword weaved an invisible circle around Sojan's guard

and the newcomer soon had him at his mercy. Be-

fore he knew it, the mercenary's sword flew from

his grasp and clattered to the earth, ten feet away.

"Yield?" questioned the victor.

"I yield," panted he. "You are a great fighter.

Who are you, sir?"

"Perhaps you have heard of me," smiled his late

adversary, "I am Nornos Kad, War Lord of the Im-

perial Empire of Hatnor!"

"Sir," said Sojan with a bow, "I, who came to

enlist in your service and offer my aid to you, begin

by fighting you. I crave your forgiveness."

Nornos Kad laughed. "Never mind, you did very

well against my warrior here. To best him is a test

indeed and I feel that I would do well to enlist your

services." He signed to a servant who was waiting

in a doorway. "Come, you will be my guest until I

have need of you. Here, Oumlat, take Sojan to one

of the best guest rooms and see that he is well

looked after."

For a week or so Sojan enjoyed the privileges of

the Royal Guest until one morning a messenger came

to say that Nornos Kad had asked for him.

"I summoned you, Sojan," Nornos Kad said, when

they were alone, "because you are to accompany me

on a journey. Our mission is to take Il-that, princess

of Sengol, back to her father's country. I desire to

bring Sengol into the Hatnorian alliance without

bloodshed if possible and the king would think well

of it if his daughter was personally escorted home by

the War Lord himself. You had better prepare your

weapons and be ready to move from your quarters

by dawn tomorrow."

Ten warships, heavily armed with Hatnorian air-

guns which worked on the simple principle of com-

pressed air, with a range of over half a mile, and the

Royal Airship, were ready to take to the air early the

next morning. They rose majestically, hovered for a

few moments, and then, with motors purring, the

great gas-bags veered off towards Sengol which lay

far to the north.

Within three or four hours they had crossed the

outermost boundary of Hatnor and her satellites and

were winging their way at a steady eighty miles an

hour over Veronlam, a country which owed no alle-

giance to Hatnor and which, although fearing the

mighty Empire, was constantly stirring up petty strife

between the minor Hatnorian nationals. They had

nearly reached the border of Veronlam when the

soft purr of motors was heard and a shell whistled

past them and exploded in their rear air container.

"Veronlam pirates!" yelled the fore-gunner.

Quickly the small fleet formed a protective barrier

about the Royal ship. One airship was hit a dozen

times in as many different places and hurtled down-

wards, flames roaring from the gas-bag and the crew

jumping overboard rather than die in the flames.

Nornos Kad realised at once that to fight against

so many would soon end in disaster for his fleet,

and he ordered them to turn about and flee back to

Hatnor. He decided to rely upon his speedier en-

gines to aid them rather than their powerful guns.

The Hatnorian fleet circled and fled. Nornos Kad

was the last to leave the battle and hastily turned

about to follow his ships. But alas, it was too late,

for three well-aimed shots in their main tank sent

them spiralling slowly to earth to land with a sicken-

ing crash amidst a tangle of red-hot girders and

flaming fabric. Being on the platform of the ship

Nornos Kad, Sojan and Il-that were flung clear of

the main wreckage, to lie stunned.

Sojan did not know how long it was he lay amidst

the wreckage of the Royal Airship, but when he

awoke it was dawn. He knew that none could have

escaped if they had been trapped in the wreckage

but nevertheless he spent a fruitless two hours search-

ing for his companionsall he found were two or

three charred corpses but none lived. Convinced

that his companions were dead he took the only

unbroken water bottle and set off in the direction of

Hatnor. Sojan's eye caught the gleam of white stone

far to the south of his position. With a sigh of relief

he began to walk quickly towards the gleam which

grew soon into a patch and from that into a city, its

walls towering fifty paces in places. Knowing that

he was still probably in Veronlam he knew that it

would be useless to try to gain admission on the

strength of his allegiance to Nornos Kad the War

Lord. Stripping himself of his Hatnorian Navy-Cloak

and also his Navy-type gauntlets he stood arrayed as

when he had first entered Hatnor, as a mercenary

swordsman.

He easily gained admittance to the city of Quentos

as mercenaries were always welcome to swell the

ranks of any army.

"By Mimuk, friend, you're the third to pass through

these gates this day," the guard said, as he was

allowed to enter the city.

"The third. That's strange is it not, guard?" re-

plied Sojan. "Three people in one day! Mimuk, you

must be joking!"

"I joke not, friend mercenary, strange as it seems

two others have preceded you and one of them was

a woman. Our warriors found them near the wreck

of an airship. Some say the ones we captured were

Nornos Kad himself and Il-that, daughter of Hugor

of Sengol. Two prizes indeed if it be the truth."

Sojan strode off in the direction indicated by the

friendly guard.

Arriving at the tavern he hired a room and or-

dered himself a meal. Finishing his repast, he was

horrified to find that the only money he had was

that of Hatnor. If he tried to pass this he knew that

the suspicions of the keeper of the tavern would be

instantly aroused. What should he do? He had

brought nothing with him to the tavern save his

sword, shield and poinard and the clothes he wore.

He reasoned that the only chance he stood was to

try and slip quietly out of the door before the propri-

etor spotted him and ordered him to pay his bill.

Just as he thought he had reached the safety of the

street a hand fell on his shoulder and the leering

face of the landlord was brought close to his.

"Going so soon, my lord? Methinks you would

like to stay and sample some more of our victuals

before you make yourerhasty departure," he said

with ponderous sarcasm. "Now pay up or my men'll

make sure you pay for your mealin blood!"

"You threaten me, by Mimuk!" cried Sojan, his

easily roused temper getting the better of him. "You

dare threaten me! Draw your weapon!"

"Hey, Tytho, Zatthum, Wanrimcome and save

me from this murdering bilker!" cried the keeper of

the tavern in terror.

Instantly three ruffians appeared in the narrow

doorway and, drawing their blades, rushed at Sojan,

causing him to release his grasp upon the unfortu-

nate man and turn to face this new danger.

Zatthum went down in the first minute with an

inch of steel marking its path through his heart. The

remaining two were not so easily defeated. Back and

forth across the narrow street the three fought, sparks

flying from their blades, the clang of their weapons

resounding upon the rooftops. Sojan was marked in

a dozen places, but his adversaries were bleeding in

as many as he was. With a quick thrust, a parry and

another thrust the mercenary succeeded in dispatch-

ing the second man. Now only Tytho was left. Sojan

allowed himself to be headed off and the man edged

him completely around so that they were now

retracing their path. With a mighty effort Sojan, who

was still tired after his narrow escape from the air-

ship, gathered his remaining strength together and

made a vicious lunge in Tytho's direction. He cried

out in pain when Sojan's blade found the muscles of

his left arm, but did not relax his grip upon his own

sword. Again Sojan was forced further back towards

the gaping crowd which had collected outside the

tavern. His shield saved him from the thrust de-

signed to end the fight but he knew he could not last

longer for he was rapidly tiring. Suddenly his foot

caught in the trappings of one of the dead men's

harnesses and he fell backwards across the corpse. A

grim smile graced Tytho's face as he raised his sword

to deliver the final thrust.

"Kill him, Tytho, kill him," the crowd roared in

frenzied bloodlust.

Sojan, entangled in the harness of the man he had

slain, tried to rise but was stopped from doing so by

a shove from Tytho's booted foot.

The hireling raised his sword again and the Crowd

leaned forward.

Suddenly there was a disturbance at one end of

the street and the crowd quickly began to disperse.

As it did so, Tytho saw the City Patrol, scourge of

the city thieves, was the cause of the crowd's disap-

pearance. Looking hurriedly about him for a way of

escape he found none; he dropped his sword and

began to run, foolishly, along the street.

The leader of the Patrol raised his pistol. There

was the slight hiss of escaping air and the running

hireling gave a short cry, threw up his arms, stum-

bled and dropped on the cobbles of the street.

"What's happening here?"

By this time Sojan had disentangled himself from

the harness of his late opponent and was standing,

legs a'sprawl, hand to head.

"You've saved my life, sir!" he gasped. "These

ruffians attacked me for my money. I succeeded in

killing two but unfortunately became tangled up with

this fellow." He indicated the body. "Tytho was

about to finish me when you arrived!"

The leader laughed. "You certainly accounted very

well for yourself," he said, "these three are among

the worst of the type with whom we have to con-

tend. Ruthless murderers, perfect swordsmen." Again

he laughed. "Or almost perfect. You did us a service

and I am grateful."

He surveyed Sojan's bloodstained and tattered

clothing.

"You're a stranger here are you not?" he enquired.

"A mercenary swordsman, perhaps?"

"Yes, I am named Sojanthey nickname me

'Shieldbearer' as I use this." Sojan pointed to his

shield.

"Well, Sojan Shieldbearer, how would you like to

bear a shield and wield a sword in the Patrol?"

Instantly Sojan saw his chance. If he could get a

post in the organised militia of the city, he might be

able to contact his prisoned friends.

"It has always been my ambition to serve in the

Veronlamite Guard," he lied, "but to become a mem-

ber of the great Patrol is a chance for which I had not

dared hope."

"Then come with us and we'll enlist you immedi-

ately. And," he added, "get you a decent jerkin and

harness."

Before he could become a full-fledged Patrolman,

Sojan had to undergo a course of basic training.

When this was finished, his duties were to Patrol,

with his men, a certain section of the city, and arrest

any thieves, footpads or similar wrongdoers. The

"justice" was rough indeed and was not appreciated

by the population. All the time he heard rumours

and from these rumours he gleaned that Nornos

Kad and Il-that were imprisoned somewhere in the

Prison of Zholuna mighty towered building situ-

ated near the centre of the city. Sojan knew well that

the Patrol's duties included patrolling the prison and

acting as guards to "special" prisonersand he was

hoping that he would be given this assignment soon.

Sure enough, one day his hopes were fulfilled and

he was assigned to guard a section of Zholun Prison.

With his eyes wide open, Sojan learned where the

two were imprisoned.

"One is in the East towerthe other in the West.

Nornos Kad lies in the East tower," a guard told

Sojan one night after Sojan had plied him with enough

ale to get him drunk.

Sojan had to work fast; there were rumours that

his friends were to die by the sword in two days'

time.

His first loyalty was to Nornos Kad. He contrived

to enter the East tower wherein Nornos Kad was

imprisoned. Stealthily he made his way to the metal-

studded door of the cell.

"Nornos Kad," he whispered.

He heard the rattle of chains and through the bars

of the door saw his chieftain's handsome face, drawn

and pale through lack of food and sleep.

"Sojan!" exclaimed the War Lord. "I thought you

died in the crash!"

"I am alive and here to save you if I can. I was

assigned to guard the West wing so it will be more

difficulthowever I shall try and get the keys. Until

I returnhave hope!"

And with that Sojan crept back along the gloomy

passage. On return he found that the Patrolman on

duty was talking to someone. He waited until the

man had left and then walked into the little room

which was being used to house guards.

"Hullo, Stontor," cried Sojan, "what's up?"

Stontor looked worried. "It's my wife, Sojan, she's

been taken ill and I can't leave my post."

Sojan saw his chance.

"Well, you go and help her," he said. "I'll stay

here until you get back. Don't worry."

"Thanks a lot, Sojan, you're a friend indeed. Here

are the keysshouldn't think there'll be much doing

tonight." And with that he picked up his cloak and

ran down the long passage.

Hastily Sojan picked up the keys and ran back to

Nornos Kad's cell. Unlocking the door he helped

Nornos Kad from his chains.

"I was luckya coincidenceguard's wife illbut

the main trouble will be getting out of the city," he

panted, as he unlocked the heavy padlocks.

Together they returned to the guards' room. Here

Sojan left Nornos Kad. Then he made his way back

to the West wing where it was a simple matter to get

the princess from her cell. Silently they returned to

Nornos Kad.

Keeping to the sidestreets and the shadows, the

three sped along towards the city gates.

Suddenly Nornos Kad hissed, "Stop! Stop, Sojan,

there may be an easier way." He pointed to a flat

area dotted with hangers and anchored airships.

"With one of those we would have a better chance

of escaping."

"But how?" enquired Sojan.

Again Nornos Kad pointed. "You see that small

ship nearest to usthe one anchored down by a

couple of ropes?" The ship of which he was speak-

ing was fifteen feet above them, held to the ground

by anchors attached to heavy ropes. "With luck we

could gain the ship and climb the ropes."

Stealthily they padded along the side of the field,

keeping well into the shadows all the time. A single

guard lolled on the ground. Sojan crept behind him

and reversing his pistol, knocked the man uncons-

cious.

With Sojan's and Nornos Kad's help, Il-that was

able to climb the rope and they boarded the ship. As

they clambered over the rail a light suddenly ap-

peared from one of the cabins and an armed man

appeared on deck. He was followed by three others.

"Mimuk!" he cried. "What have we here?"

There was no time for words and, handing Nornos

Kad his long dirk and Il-that his pistol, Sojan drew

his sword, and engaged the man and his compan-

ions. Nornos Kad was close behind him. Back and

forth across the narrow deck the six men fought,

and the four crewmen were no mean battlers. Nornos

Kad, weak from his sojourn in Zholun Prison, still

put up a good fight. Together they succeeded in

killing two of their opponentsbut the other two

were better swordsmen. The clash of steel echoed

across the silent field. Sojan was blinded by the

sudden flash of a searchlight and taking advantage

of this, his opponent cut past his guard and made a

painful gash in his side. The pain was like fire and

Sojan could barely restrain himself from crying out.

He stumbled to the deck and with a cry of triumph

the crewman raised his sword. A sudden hiss and a

strangled gasp and he collapsed over Sojan. Turning

his head he saw Il-that with the pistol in her hand.

"Thanks," was all he could say as he struggled to

his feet and ran to help Nornos Kad.

While Nornos Kad threw the bodies overboard,

Sojan started the engines. Below them they heard

shouts of a Patrol and two searchlights were now

levelled on the swaying airship. Soon they heard

cries as the bodies of the crewmen were found.

With two sword strokes Nornos Kad cut the an-

choring ropes and the ship rose swiftly into the air.

There was a coughing roar and the propellers began

to turn. The searchlights followed them; all around

them shells whistled.

Suddenly, behind them, they saw that three

battlecruisers of the fastest and heaviest type had

risen to follow them.

"More speed, Sojan, more speed!" cried Nornos

Kad. "Make for Sengol, it's nearer."

With a glance at the compass, Sojan turned the

ship's nose towards the North. Nearer and nearer

came the battlecruisers, guns popping softly. Il-that,

a true daughter of a warrior king, climbed into the

gunner's rear-seat and aimed the guns of their own

ship at the pursuing cruisers. She pressed the trig-

gers and the twin muzzles of the gun gave a jerk, a

hiss, and there was an explosion. What all a gun-

ner's skill could not easily have accomplished, Il-that

had done with luckbrought down a cruiser in its

most vulnerable spotthe main gas-bag. Flames

roared from the fabric and the ship lost height. Faster

and faster it went as the earth pulled it downwards.

The engines roaring to the last it crashed with a flash

of orange and crimson flame. But the other two

ships had still to be accounted for and Il-that was

not so lucky this time.

For two hours the chase continued, neither gain-

ing and all the time the shells from the Veronlam

craft were getting closer and closer as the gunner

perfected his aim.

"They will catch us soon," cried Il-that, who still

sat in the rear-gunner's seat, "they seem to be draw-

ing closer!"

"Then we shall have to land and hope that we're

not still in Veronlam," yelled Nornos Kad above the

shrieking wind.

"It will be a long time for us to do so, sir," Sojan

told Nornos Kad, "we have no anchors, and to re-

lease the gas in the gas-bag would mean that while

we lost height we should also lose speed."

"Then there's only one thing we can do!" cried

the Emperor, "and that's this!" Raising his sword he

cut deep into the nearest gas-bag. He was thrown to

the deck as the contents rushed out and almost at

once the ship began to drop, dangerously fast. The

three stood by the side, ready to jump.

With a hard jolt the ship touched the ground,

bumped along it, and stopped. Over the side the

three companions went and ran over soft moss to

the sheltering shadows of some rocks as the Veron-

lamite searchlights began to stab into the darkness.

But it was easy to hide in the rocks and the caves

sheltered them when the Veronlams landed and made

a vain search for them.

In the morning it was an easy matter to walk to

the nearest Sengolian city and thence to the capital,

where the king gratefully took his daughter and

promised that Sengol would always be an ally to

Hatnor.

(Original draft c. 1955)

2. Mission to Asno

MOTORS PURRING, captains shouting orders, the rustle

of the canvas gun-covers being drawn back, gay

flags, flashing steel, flying cloaks of many hues; a

Hatnorian war-fleet rose rapidly into the sky.

On the deck of the flagship stood a tall, strong

figurethat of Sojan, nicknamed "Shieldbearer", sec-

ond in command to the great War Lord of Hatnor

himselfNornos Kad.

At his side was a long broadsword, upon his back

his round shield; his right hand rested on the butt of

his heavy air-pistolan incredibly powerful weapon.

Clad in a jerkin of sky-blue, a divided kilt of deep

crimson and boots of dark leather, over his shoulder

his leathern war-harness, he was the typical example

of a Zylorian mercenary, whose love of bright garb

was legendary.

The great war-fleet was destined for Asnoa coun-

try far to the north of Hatnor where the king, so the

spies told, was raising an army of mercenaries to

attack Yundrota colony of the Hatnorian Empire.

To stop a major war, Nornos Kad decided to send

a mighty fleet to crush the attack before it was started.

Having other business, he assigned Sojan to take his

place and instructed him to completely wipe out any

signs of an attack.

Only too pleased at the chance of battle, Sojan had

readily assented and was now on his waythe en-

tire fleet under his command.

Soon the fleet was winging its way over Asnoa

land of snow and ice, fierce beasts, great tracts of

uninhabited icefieldsuninhabited, that is, by civilised

beings.

In another hour it would be over Boitil, the capital

city.

"Gunners, take your positions!" Sojan roared

through cupped hands and picking up a megaphone

for there was no radio on Zylorshouted the same

orders, which went from ship to ship until every

gunner was seated in his seat, guns loaded and

ready for firing.

"Drop two hundred feet!" Sojan roared again to

the steersman, and repeated these orders to the other

captains, who in turn shouted them to their own

steersmen.

"Prepare hand weapons and fasten down loose

fixtures, check gas-bag coverings, every man to posi-

tion!" Sojan shouted when the ships had all dropped

two hundred feet.

"Slow speed!" The ships slowed into "second-

speed."

In Zylorian naval terms there are five speeds:

"Speed No. 1" is fastest possible, "Speed No. 2" is a

fifth of this slower, and so on. When a commander

gives the order to slow when travelling at Speed No.

1, the ship automatically adjusts to Speed No. 2; if

going at No. 2 and told to slow, it changes to No. 3.

Now they were over the outskirts of the city, drop-

ping lower and lower until Sojan thought they would

touch the very towers of Boitil, scanning the squares

and flying-fields for signs of the army. Halfway over

the city a message was passed to Sojan that a great

army camp had been spottedjust on the outskirts

of the city. At the same time someone yelled for him

to look, and doing so he saw that a fleet almost as

large as his own was rising from flying-fields all over

the vast city.

"Prepare for battle!" he shouted.

As one, the safety catches of the guns were pushed

off.

"Shoot as you will!" Sojan ordered.

There was a muffled "pop" and the hiss of escap-

ing air as the explosive shells of the Hatnorian craft

were sent on their mission of destruction. Almost at

once the enemy retaliated.

Two Hatnorian ships, one only slightly damaged,

the other a mass of roaring yellow and blue flame,

dropped earthwards.

For twelve hours the great air-battle was fought,

developing into ship-to-ship duels as the opposing

sides became mixed. Bit by bit the battle moved

southwards until it was over the great ice wastes.

But expert handling of their craft, superior marks-

manship and a slightly superior weight of numbers

on the part of the Hatnorian fleet was slowly but

surely weakening the Asnogian fleet. Sojan, now

with a gun mounted on the officer's platform, was

taking an active part in the battle. His uncanny abil-

ity to hit almost whatever he aimed at was taking

great toll. Everywhere ships were hurtling earth-

wards, crashing in an inferno of flame, or merely

bouncing gently when a gas-bag was only slightly

punctured.

At last, one by one, the enemy began to flee. The

other ships, seeing their companions escape, disen-

gaged and followed them. The hired ships, manned

mainly by mercenaries, flew in every direction but

that of Asno, while the Asnogian craft turned and

headed for their home base. In this direction went

the Hatnorian fleet, re-forming to a close formation

and turning to No. 1 speed. If they overtook a ship it

was ruthlessly shot down; but half a dozen or so

were lucky and escaped them. In three hours they

were back over Asno and bombing the troop en-

campment with incendiaries until nothing remained

of the great camp but smouldering fabric and twisted

steel. Through the south gate of the city streamed

forth ragged bands of hired soldiers, bent on escap-

ing while they could. The planned attack on a

Hatnorian colony had not even begun. A just repri-

sal on Nornos Kad's part. A reprisal carried out in

full by Sojan. But his business was not finished and,

landing on part of an undamaged airfield, Sojan

ordered the frightened commanding officer to take

him to King Tremorn of Asno.

"I bring a message from my Emperor!" he cried

when he was in the vast chamber which housed the

king's court. All around him stood courtiers and

servants, worried and anxious to hear his terms.

Great pillars supported the roof and brilliant tapes-

tries hung from the ceiling. Murals on the walls

depicted scenes of battles, on land, water and in the

air.

"Speak your message," ordered the king. "What

are your terms? I admit that I am beaten! For the

present!" he added.

"For all time, sir, while a member of the Nornis

family sits on the throne of Hatnor!" Sojan replied.

"Now, do you wish to hear my terms?"

"Speak!"

"The first is that you acknowledge allegiance to

Hatnor and pay a tribute of five hundred young men

to train in our armies every tenth year. The second is

that you disband any army you still have, save for

policing your city. On signs of attack, you will notify

the Empire, who will come to your aid. As a mem-

ber of the Empire you will be subject to all laws and

trading terms of the Empire and in times of major

war shall enlist two-thirds of your fighting strength

in the armies of Hatnor and the remaining third if

called upon. You will not make war-ships or weap-

ons of war, save hand weapons, for your own use,

but all war-ships and arms shall be sent direct to the

capital. Do you recognise these terms?"

The king paused and, turning to his major domo,

whispered a few words to him. The man nodded.

"Yes, I recognise your terms," he sighed.

"Then sign your name and oath to this document

and seal it with your royal seal. Upon the breaking

of your word, the lapse shall be punished according

to the magnitude."

Sojan handed the paper to a courtier who carried

it to the king. The act of bowing to a king is un-

known upon the planet Zylor, instead the subject

places his right hand upon his heart to signify com-

plete allegiance.

So it was that Sojan achieved his purpose. But

more adventures were yet to come before he could

return to his palace at Hatnor.

3. Revolt in Hatnor

"SOJAN, SOJAN!" the call rang across the clear Zylorian

sky as a small scout-ship veered towards the larger

warship, the flagship of Sojan, second-in-command

to the War Lord of HatnorNornos Kad.

"Who are you?" Sojan's lieutenant roared through

a megaphone.

"I bring urgent tidings from the court of Nornos

Kadthe land is in turmoil!"

"Come alongside," the man roared.

As the scout-ship drew alongside, an armed man

jumped from it and rushed up the ladder to the

platform whereon Sojan stood.

"Sojan! While the fleet has been at war, revolution

has swept through the land. Nornos Kad has been

deposed and a tyrant sits on the throne of Hatnor.

There is a price upon your head and upon the heads

of all whom you command.

"Flee now, Sojan, while you have the chance.

Trewin the Upstart controls the city and half the

Empire. The other half is in a state of unrest, unsure

whether to support one Emperor or another!"

"I cannot flee while my Emperor rots in chains

tell me, who still cries 'Loyalty to the Nornis family'?"

"None openly, Sojan. A few are suspected, but

they are still powerful nobles and even Trewin dare

not arrest them without cause."

Sojan's face became grim and he clenched his hand

upon his sword hilt.

"Lun!" he cried. "Order the fleet to turn about and

adjust to Speed One!"

A look of surprise crossed his lieutenant's face.

"We're not running, Sojan?"

"Do as I say!"

"Turn about and adjust to Speed One!" Lun

shouted through his megaphone.

At once the great fleet turned gracefully about and

adjusted, speed by speed, until it was flying at maxi-

mum speed. There were puzzled looks in the eyes of

many of Sojan's captains, but they obeyed his order.

"Tell them to set a course for Poltoon," he ordered

Lun. Lun did so and soon every ship was heading

southto the steaming jungles and burning deserts

of the Heat Lands.

"Why do we sail for Poltoon, Sojan?" asked Lun.

But Sojan's only reply was, "You will see," and he

resumed his earnest conversation with the messen-

ger who had brought him the news.

On the third day they were sailing at No. 1 speed

over a vast belt of jungle, seemingly impenetrable.

But Sojan's eyes, less atrophied by civilised living,

caught what he had been looking fora patch of

green, lighter than the dark green which predomi-

nated.

"STOP!" he roared. "Stop and hoverno one is to

drop anchor."

The flying machines of the Zylorian nations are

usually very similar to our airships. The gondola is

supported by steel hawsers depending from the main

gas-bag. The propeller is adjustable and can be slung

either fore or aft of the shipit is usually slung aft.

They are steered by two methods, a rudder aft plus

manipulation of the propeller. A normal sized war-

ship usually mounts five gunstwo very powerful

ones fore and aft, a smaller one on the captain's

platform and two mounted in a platform on top of

the huge gas-bag. The gunners reach this platform

by means of ladders from the deck to the platform.

This position is extremely dangerous and if ever the

gas-bag is hit it is unlikely that a gas-bag gunner

could ever escape.

The ships stopped as ordered and while they

waited, Sojan had his ship drop downwards, nearer

and nearer to the little patch of green which became

a small clearing, just large enough to land one ship,

but for a fleet of over fifty ships to land here was

impossible. With a slight bump the ship dropped to

the ground and the anchor was thrown into the soft

grass. Sojan ordered that the gas-bags be deflated.

They could always be inflated again as every ship

carried a large supply of gas-cylinders.

Now the ship was only a third of the size and was

dragged into the undergrowth which was not at all

thick. Sojan told his crew of eight to get to work and

chip down all the small growth but to leave the huge

forest giants standing. This they did and very soon

the clearing widened and as it did so a new ship

dropped down until the fifty were all deflated and

covering a large area of ground under the trees. The

cabins made excellent living quarters so there was

no difficulty about housing the men. Rations were

also plentiful and a spring of fresh water was nearby.

"I know this part of the country well," Sojan told

his men that night, "the inhabitants are for the most

part friendly. While they are not civilised, they are

not savages and I believe that they will give us some

help. But now we sleep and tomorrow we shall

rouse the tribes!"

Next morning, Sojan with a small party of his men

set off for the village of his barbarian friends.

The chief greeted him warmly and was interested

in Sojan's need for soldiers.

"You know me and my people, Soyin," he said,

using the nearest Poltoonian equivalent of Sojan's

name. "We all love to fightand if there's a bit of

loot thrown in, who's to say 'no'?"

"Then I can depend on you?"

"By all meansI shall form a council immediately

and recruit as many of my fellow chiefs as possible.

Between us we should muster a few thousand fight-

ing men."

By Zylorian standards, where most nations are

comparatively small to Earth nations, a thousand

men is quite a large number.

"Then have them ready by the third day, my

friend," Sojan replied. "Blood will stain the usurp-

er's robes before the month is gone!"

4. The Hordes Attack

THE DAY of the invasion was drawing nearer and

Sojan began to work harder and harder in the train-

ing of his barbarian hordethe Poltoonians. Spies

brought word that there was more and more unrest

in the outlying provinces of Hatnor.

"The time is right to strike," Sojan told his cap-

tains and the wild chiefs. "We must invade now or

our cause will be lost and we will never again have

the opportunity to win Hatnor back from the usurper

and restore Nornos Kad to his rightful throne!"

His airships, camouflaged by the mighty trees of

the steaming Poltoonian jungle, were provisioned

and ready to do battle. His captains were word-

perfect in his plan of invasion. Everyone had his

orders and knew how to carry them out.

A day later a horde, consisting of thousands of

mounted barbarians led by Sojan himself, moved

towards the Northand Hatnor!

Two days later, the faster moving airships rose

into the air like a swarm of hornets armed with

stings a hundred times more powerful. As they passed

the horde, the ships slowed to minimum speed and

followed, flying low, just above them. In another

day they would arrive at the boundaries of Hatnor

and blood would run in the gutters of all who op-

posed them.

Sojan was sure that very little blood would flow as

the army would be on his side. It was the criminal

population, egged on by an evil and power-mad

noble, who had risen and overthrown their Emperor

while the bulk of his army was crushing a rebellion

in an outer province.

There would always be unrest in any regime. Sojan

knew this, but there was no cause for the people to

grumble about their ruler. As always, the unrest had

been caused by a powerseeker intent on turning a

nation into a blood-bath for his own selfish ends.

Now the once happy people groaned beneath the

tyrant's yoke, no man, woman or child could count

themselves safe from his oppression.

Not only men made up the barbarian army, their

maidens rode beside them, armed with knife, sword,

shield and spear. In their left hands they carried

charm sticks to keep their men and themselves from

harm. Most of these girls were extremely beautiful

and the armour they wore did not detract from their

good looks in any way, rather it enhanced them.

At last they reached the outer boundaries of the

Empire and found little opposition here. It would be

later, when news of their invasion reached the city

of Hatnor, that the fighting would begin. Sojan was

finding it difficult to keep the barbarians in order;

they had decided that anyone could be slain as long

as they got their loot. But after a council meeting

with the chiefs he was sure that they would be

reliable for a time.

Two days later found them at the gates of Vermlot,

gates which were securely locked and guarded.

The barbarians were all for laying violent siege to

the place, but Sojan realised that they could hold out

for an eternity.

"You are forgetting our ships," he said, "we have

the whole of the Hatnorian airforce under our con-

trol. They will not last as long as they hope!"

His flagship sailed gracefully down for him and

then shot up again when he was aboard. Orders

were shouted from ship to ship and the fleet dipped

downwards towards the great city square. Aboard were

hundreds of soldiers, the most reliable of the barbar-

ian horde, and as soon as the ships reached the

ground, not without some opposition, they swarmed

from the ships and ran to engage the rather fright-

ened militia who barred their way.

Wild cries, strangely woven banners raised against

a background of flashing steel and muffled poppings

of the airpistols and rifles. It was impossible to use

the heavier artillery.

Into the square they poured and soon it was im-

possible to tell friend or foe as the fighting surged

back and forth, spreading outwards into the streets,

into the very houses themselves. Attacked from the

inside as well as at their walls, the tyrant's men were

uncertain whom to attack and while they wavered,

the barbarians took the opportunity to batter in one

of the minor gateways and clamber over the inner

wall.

The streets were slippery with blood, echoing with

the ring of steel and the cries of the wounded.

Sojan was in front, hewing and hacking with his

great blade, his long hair streaming behind him and

a grim smile upon his lips. "To the Palace, to the

Palace," he cried. "Take the Palace or our cause is

lost!"

And, like a tidal wave, the army surged over their

enemies in the direction of the great Palace. The

doors would not open to their thunderous knocking

so battering rams were brought in. As the main door

flew open, Sojan and his men drew back in horror.

There stood Nornos Kad, their ruler, worn and in

rags, a filthy stubble on his face. And surrounding

him, a body of Trewin's personal guard. Behind

them stood their leader.

"Come another step closer, Sojan, and I'll be forced

to kill your precious Emperor!" he called.

Sojan and his men were in a quandary, what were

they to do? It was checkmate, if not defeat, for them.

An idea sprang into Sojan's mind.

Aiming a pistol at Nornos Kad, he pulled the

trigger. The Emperor fell to the ground with a moan

and lay still.

"There, dog, I've done your dirty work for you!"

he laughed.

In a rage Trewin fired blindly at Sojan. The Swords-

man flung himself to the ground and the bullet whis-

tled by to catch one of his men in the shoulder.

Lifting his own pistol, Sojan fired twice. Trewin,

in the act of fleeing up the staircase, flung up his

arms and toppled down the great stairway, blood

trickling from his mouth. He landed with a thud at

the feet of his guards.

With a cry, Sojan, his sword glistening in the light

of the torches suspended around the wall, charged

for the astounded guards who, without thinking,

threw down their weapons and fled.

Nornos Kad picked himself up from the floor with

Sojan's help.

"A clever move, Sojan," he grinned, "but it took

some clever shooting, too."

He examined the hole which Sojan's bullet had

made in his coat.

"It was a minor risk, sir. If I had not taken it, the

city would even now be in the hands of Trewin."

"At the moment it seems to be in the hands of

your Poltoonian barbarians," laughed the War Lord.

"Let us go to the rescue of our fellow countrymen."

Peace had come once more to Hatnor.

5. The Purple Galley

To DESCRIBE the wonderful pageantry, the colours,

the races and the myriad weapons which flashed in

that great hall would be impossible. The gleaming

white stones of the hall, hung with vivid tapestries

of red, black, gold, yellow, orange, green and pur-

ple, almost reflected the equally scintillating colours

of the uniforms and dresses of the men and women

who stood before the throne of Nornos Kad.

But there was one uniform missing, one tall figure

which should have been there was not, one sword

did not flash in the great hall.

And the faces of the nobles were sadfor the

missing man was Nornos Rique, Prince of Hatnor

the War Lord's son.

"My people," said Nornos Kad, softly and very

sadly, "my son has been missing for thirteen days

now and still no news of him or the Princess Asderma.

Has anyone anything to reportyou, Sojan, have

you found any traces of my son?"

"No, sire, although I have searched the whole

nation. I can only conclude that your son is not in

the Hatnorian Empire!"

"Then we must find him, Sojan! Take the men

you requireand return with my son! If it is possi-

ble then you are the man to find him!"

The sun was just setting when a weary and travel-

stained rider guided his myat into the small collec-

tion of stone and wooden buildings which was the

border town of Erm. He had ridden for days, stop-

ping only to eat and gather a few hours' sleep when

he could no longer stay awake. His clothes were

good and were mainly made of durable hide. His

weapons nestled in well-oiled sheaths and scabbards,

his shield was covered with canvas. It was easy to

see that here was the typical soldier of fortunea

Zylorian mercenary.

He dismounted at the small tavern and called

through the door which was ajar.

"Hey there! Is there a stable for my animal and a

bed for me?"

"Yes, my lord," came a woman's voice from the

tavern and a girl of about eighteen appeared in the

doorway. "Hey, Kerk!" she called. "Fetch a blanket

for this gentleman's myat and take him to the stables!"

"This way my lord," said the battle-scarred vet-

eran who came to do the woman's bidding. "What's

trade like?" he added with a grin as they neared the

wooden building which served as a stable for the

beasts of the whole village.

"Not too bad," the mercenary smiled. "As long as

men are men and their tempers are the same then

I'll never be out of a job. There was an uprising in

Hatnor some months ago. That was a good scrap if

ever there was one!"

"Aye, I heard about it from another gentleman

who came this way soon after it happened. Didn't

say much, thoughmost untalkative type if you ask

me! He wasn't a Hatnoriannor a Northerner for

that matter, that was easy to see!"

"What do you mean?" The mercenary was obvi-

ously interested; more than casually so.

"He was a Shortani man, you can't mistake'em."

"Shortani's a big continentdid you hear him say

what country in Shortani?"

"Wait a minute. I believe he did say something."

The old man paused and tugged at his grizzled beard.

He frowned, thinking hard. "Yes, I've got itit was

raining at the time. Like it does most of the time in

these parts," Kerk laughed"Never seems to stop it

don't . . ."

"Yes," the mercenary was impatient, "but what

did he say?"

"What? Oh, yes. The country. Well, he said, when

he got here, that it was 'never like this in Uffjir!' Yes,

that was it."

"Uffjir, hmm, that's right on the farthest side of

Shortani. And even then he may not have been

returning there. It probably isn't anything but it seems

strange for an Uffjirian to travel so far from his tropi-

cal lands, especially in winter. What did he look like,

this man?"

"Oh! The usual type, you know. Small, a bit fat,

wore one of them fancy jewelled swords which snaps

as soon as you cross it with a good bit of Turani

steel. Why, I remember when I was a young'un

that would have been a bit before your time. We

didn't have none of them newfangled flying ma-

chines in those days, I can tell you. We had to do

all our travelling by myator more likely on our

feet..."

"Yes!" The mercenary was almost crying with im-

patience by this time. "But can you describe the

Uffjirian?" '

"Well, he had a beard if that's any good. And it

was curled up a bitlooked as if he'd put oil on it.

Wore fancy clothes, too, no good for travelling but

expensiveyes, they were certainly expensive. He

was a nobleman by the look of himhired a whole

crowd of the village men and they all went off to-

gether somewhere. They ain't back yet."

"Have you any idea where they went?"

"Only the direction. They went off in the opposite

direction to the one from which you came. Mounted,

too, and although they wouldn't admit it, every one

of them has a sword hidden in his blankets. They

can't fool me, I have to look after their myats!"

The myat had been rubbed down and was in his

stable by this time, attended by the two men, one an

aged veteran with over a hundred years of fighting

behind him and the other equally a veteran with not

much more than twenty years behind him. They

lived short lives on Zylor for most men died of a

sword thrust by the time they were seventy or eighty.

Their life span of 120 years was rarely reached.

That night, the mercenary sat in the corner of the

tavern, drinking and cleaning his heavy pistol. There

were two other visitors at the tavern. A young man

of seventeen years or so and his father. They were

friendly men and the mercenary and he found mu-

tual ground in that they were both veterans of the

Findian/Kintonian wars. The mercenary had fought

for the Findians and the manOrfilhad fought on

the side of the Kintonians. But there was no bad

feeling between the men for at that time Orfil had

also been a mercenary. Now he was a merchant

dealing in precious jewelsand he and his son were

travelling to Aborgmingi, a small group of islands in

the Shortani Sea. The mining of precious stones was

unknown there, he said, and he found it worth his

while to travel the distance over land and sea to sell

them as they obtained prices which were over five

times as much as those in Fria, his own country.

"Ride with us," he invited, "there is always a

greater amount of safety if there is a greater amount

of men and I would be glad of your company."

"I ride towards Shortani," said Sojan, "but whether

I shall for long depends on circumstances."

The merchant knew better than to ask what "cir-

cumstances" they were for privacy means life on

Zylor and those who ask too many needless ques-

tions are liable to find themselves in an alleyway

keeping close company with a knife!

The three men retired to their respective rooms

and the mercenary was glad to get some rest. Wea-

rily he sank on to the not-so-soft bed and lay down

to sleep.

In the morning he awoke at his accustomed hour

and attempted to rise. He could not, for his hands

were bound. He was strapped to the bed and the

only thing he could move was his head. Looking

down at him with a smile on his face wasOrfil the

merchant, and his son. Only his "son" had donned

her skirts again and was an extremely pretty girl!

"Well, my nosy soldier, you've put your nose into

one game too many this time!" laughed Orfil, who

seemed to be enjoying a great joke. The girl behind

him was not so amused. Her whole bearing was

tense and the hand that gripped the pistol at her

side gleamed white at the knuckles.

"Perhaps I should introduce myself," continued

the man. "my name is Orfil. I am the Captain of the

Spies Guild in Rhan. This lady prefers to. remain

unknown, although where you're going the gods

will know it anyway!"

"You're going to kill me then?"

"Yes."

"And am I permitted to enquire 'why'?"

"Certainly. I am afraid that I shall be forced to kill

youthough I regret it, sir, for I like you. You see,

you have been enquiring just a little too pointedly to

be harmless. I suspect that you are more than a

common mercenarythat perhaps you are in the

pay of Uffjirand if this is so, then it will be more

of a pleasure to kill you!"

"I am no Uffjirian, you oaf! And I am not involved

in any intrigue. I seek my War Lord's son who

disappeared some time ago! Think not that I would

sink so low as you!"

The smile vanished from the Rhanian's face and

his right hand clenched on his long sword.

"Then I am sorry! You see Nornos Rique is in this

right up to his lance-tip!"

And with that, he raised his sword. The girl turned

away, and just as Orfil was about to deal the death

thrust, the door opened slowly and he saw the face

of the Uffjirian nobleman. Behind him were half a

dozen burly swordsmen.

"Yit take you, Parijh!" cried the spy and then to

the girl, "Quick, get behind me and open the win-

dow. I'll hold them back. There are myats awaiting!"

And with that he rushed upon the Uffjirian who,

for a moment was so taken aback that he could

hardly defend himself from the furious attack of

Orfil's sword.

"Quick men," he yelled, "seize him, kill him, don't

let him escape!" But the narrow doorway would not

permit more than one man to enter at a time and

Orfil easily pushed Parijh back and swung the heavy

bar into position as the door shut.

"No time to slay you now," he panted as he

clambered over the window ledge, "perhaps some

other time ..."

The girl had by this time scrambled from the win-

dow and was waiting with the myats. The soft thud

of their hooves was drowned by the yells of the man

from Uffjir and the surly answers of his companions.

Silence fell as the men gave chase to Orfil and the

girl. The mercenary still lay strapped to the bed. The

door was barred from the inside and he had begun

to think that he would soon starve to death when

someone knocked on the door.

"Get me out of here!" he yelled.

"Is there anything the matter, sir?"

This was too much even for a hardened warrior.

"Yes there is!" he roared. "And if you don't let me

out right nowI'll tear the place down with my bare

hands!" A rather vain boast considering his position.

Murmurs at the door and the retracing of steps

down the creaking staircase.

He waited expectantly, hearing occasional voices.

Then there were tramping feet on the stairway and

in a few moments the door fell inwards, closely

followed by two men with a battering log and be-

hind them old Kerk.

"I said there was something up!" he exclaimed

triumphantly.

It was a matter of minutes to untie the mercenary,

for him to gather up his accoutrements, to pay Kerk

and to find and saddle his myat. Then he was off,

down the long forest track, following the trail of

Orfil and his pursuers.

For three hours he followed a trail which was

easily found. Once or twice he thought he heard

movements in the forest but, although he kept his

hand ever ready on his sword, he was not attacked.

Then, just as he turned the bend in the trail, they

were there. The Uffjirian's men, lined across the

narrow path, swords drawn and pikes at the ready.

But the mercenary was trained to quick thinking

and at the same moment as his heels dug into his

myat's flanks, he drew sword, unhooked shield and

brought his lance to bear as he thundered down

upon his foes, his crimson cloak flying behind him

like a vampire's wings soaked in blood, and a blood-

curdling war-shout on his lips!

Taken aback, they wavered, but at the Uffjirian's

shouts behind them, pushed forward to meet the

charging lancer. Down went one with a brilliantly

tufted shaft protruding from his throat. The lance

was wrenched out of the mercenary's hands and his

steed reared and snorted, flailing with its cloven

hooves. His face was alight with battle-lust, he ducked

beneath the guard of another man and dealt him a

cut which put him down, shrieking and calling to

some unknown god in an agony of death. He whirled

his steed about, hoping to gain a little ground by

retreating, but it was too late, for he was surrounded

by a solid ring of pikes and blue steel. He caught

blow after blow on his shield and the flat of his

sword. One man lunged upwards with his heavy

pike and the myat snorted in pain before his deadly

hooves beat the man down.

Leaping from the wounded myat, the lone swords-

man found himself surrounded by four of Parijh's

men. He bled from a dozen superficial cuts and still

he fought with the skill and ferocity of a trained

crinja cat. Then there was a gap in their ranks and he

was through, rushing for a tethered myat twenty

yards away.

Howling like were-wolves, they followed him across

the glade and reached him just as he cut the tether-

ing rope of the myat with his sword and leaped into

the high saddle. They attempted to cut at his ani-

mal's legs but a swift arc of blue steel drove them

back. As he passed the body of the man whom he

had first slain, he stooped and wrenched the lance

from the corpse and then he was away, down the

long trail in the direction Orfil had taken. All his

would-be captors heard was a grim laugh which

echoed through the tall trees of the forest.

Turning in the saddle, the mercenary saw them

run to their mounts and Parijh come from behind,

scolding and cursingfor among other things, the

fine beast the mercenary had taken had belonged to

the Uffjirian!

And it soon proved its worth for he easily outdis-

tanced them and was again following Orfil's tracksa

trail which was to lead to the weirdest adventure in

his whole career.

6. The Sea Wolves!

Two DAYS after his fight with the Uffjirian's men, the

mercenary rode into the port of Minifjar in the coun-

try of Barj.

There were several ships in the harbour. Mer-

chantmen mainly, but here and there rose the tall

prows of warships.

Although their airships are motor-powered, the

Zylorians have not found an engine capable of mov-

ing their ships, or for carrying them for very far and,

since steam-power also is unknown, they still rely

on sails and oars for motive power.

Most of the ships were equipped with both sails

and oars but two of them were built for sails only.

From every one of them, long barrels poked from

strategic ports, for it was only a suicidal madman

who would sail anything but the calm waters of the

Asnogi Channel and the Shortani Sea unarmed.

There was one ship, a galley, which stood out

from the others. Its tall prow triumphantly above the

rest and its sails and paintwork were predominantly

purple. Purple, like black on Earth, is the colour of

death on Zylor, so it attracted much attention from

the inhabitants of the small town.

The mercenary sought out the only presentable

inn and bought a meal and a bed for the night.

As he lugged his equipment wearily up the flight

of narrow stairs, he looked up and caught a glimpse

of a familiar facethat of Orfil of Rhan's girl com-

panion.

Evidently she had been watching him and the

warrior kept a wary hand on his sword and resolved

to make sure that his door was firmly barred that

night.

But soon after he had dumped his belongings on

the dirty bed, he heard the rattle of harness and,

from his small window, he saw the spy and the girl

leaving the walled entrance to the innthey had

none of their possessions with them which told the

mercenary a great deal. They had gone for reinforce-

ments. He sat on the edge of the bed pondering

what he should do.

He had decided that it would be wiser to leave,

when there came the sound of myat's hooves and a

squad of Barjite Cavalry, fully armed with lances,

swords, long rifles and pistols, clad in uniforms of

blue, red and green with shining breastplates, hel-

mets and leg greaves of bright steel. They clattered

to a halt outside the inn.

"Thank Yit!" the mercenary murmured. For he

recognised the captain of the mounted men as an

old friend, who had fought beside him in an expedi-

tion Barj had made when bandits had been raiding

their caravans of merchandise.

"Red," he cried, opening the window. "Red, you

son of a crinja cat!"

Red, or as his men knew him, Captain Jeodvir,

Vollitt's son of Chathja, turned. Then, as he saw

who called him, a wide grin took the place of his

previously astonished expression and he passed a

hand through the shock of hair which gave him his

nickname.

"Sojan! What are you doing in this particular bit of

Hell?"

"And you? One of King Vixian's crack lancers

commanding a coast patrol!"

"The king doesn't like me any more, Sojan,"

laughed the warrior. "Not since I pressed for better

pay for the cavalry and nearly started a civil war at

the last council!"

It was Sojan's turn to laugh. "You couldn't plead

for better conditions for the underpaid infantry, I

suppose!"

"What? And have them get the idea that they're

up to cavalry standard!"

The rivalry between infantry and mounted divi-

sions in Barj was very real and at times became a

threat to the internal peace of that nation. The brawls

between the better trained cavalry (generally inherit-

ing the right to become an officer) and the recruited

infantry were cursed in every town from Erm to

Ishtam-Zhem, the capital. But Sojan was not con-

cerned with this, he had an ally now, no need to

run, he could stay and fight like a man.

"Looking for a fight, Red?" he said.

"Dying to be killed, why?" enquired Red, using

an expression which was currently popular among

fighting men.

"Because I have a feeling that we will be in one

soon!"

"Good, I'll tell my men to be prepared."

"Thanks, I'll need some help, I think."

"Unusual for you to admit that!"

"Shut up, I'm coming down."

In the courtyard of the inn, Sojan told Red what

he knew about Orfil and what had happened to him

since he left the court of Hatnor to search for his

ruler's son.

And as he finished, Orfil and a band of some

twenty mounted men in seamen's clothes, rode into

the courtyard. The captain's squad consisted of ten

menso they were outnumbered almost two-to-one.

The seamen had no lances but the cavalry had left

their rifles, pistols and lances with their myats' sad-

dles and other equipment. Now they were armed

only with long sabres (or vilthors) and small battle-

axes.

It took Orfil less than a second to take stock of the

situation and with a curse, he bore down upon the

group, yelling a blasphemous battle-shout so full of

evil that it made Sojan's hair tingle. His men fol-

lowed him, hardened sea-wolves these, all of them

by rights fodder for the executioner's axe. Scarred,

wild-eyed men in exotic clothes of many hues and

nations. Black, green, white and red. From every

nation on Zylor, they bore weapons which were

equally variedbattle-axes, maces, pikes, hooked

swords and broadswords, vilthors and blades resem-

bling scimitars. All were there, and many so strange

that they defied simple description.

Sojan blocked Orfil's lance thrust with his own

long sword and unslung his shield from his back in

a hurry. But not soon enough, for Orfil's lance stabbed

again and flung the mercenary backward against a

wall. Luckily, the lance tip broke on Sojan's breast-

plate and Orfil swore to his dark gods as he wheeled

his steed about and attempted to cut at Sojan with

his broadsword. But now Sojan was up again, back

against the wall, shield up and blade screaming as

he cut past Orfil's guard.

But Orfil was swept away as the fight eddied back

and forth across the courtyard. There, a green man

of Poltoon went down with a lancer on top of him,

stabbing again and again. Near him a huge red man,

bearded, with one of his small horns broken and

splintered, staggered towards his tethered steed spit-

ting blood from a punctured lunghe never made

the myat. A lancer was crushed by sheer weight of

numbers as four howling, long-haired black men from

Shortani bore him down and almost tore him to

pieces. Everywhere was chaos and Sojan hardly knew

who it was he fought, there were so many of them.

Finally he singled out another red giant who whirled

a shrieking twin-bladed axe around his head and

laughed through his black beard all the time. He

bled from a flesh wound in his left arm and his face

streamed blood from a superficial sword cut, but he

never seemed to tire. Sojan caught a blow of the axe

on his shield which dented so much that it almost

broke his arm. Discarding it he skipped nimbly away

from the arc of blood-stained steel, ducked beneath

it and ripped upwards with a thrust that caught the

giant in the throat and threw him groaning to the

cobbles before Sojan lost sight of him as a fresh

wave of sea-spoilers pushed towards him.

The war-shout of his people was upon Sojan's lips

and it rose above the screams and curses of the men,

spurred Red and his men on to greater feats of

magnificent swordsmanship until the sailors were

driven back. Slowly, very slowly, they gave ground

and just as victory seemed in the hands of Sojan and

his allies, from the courtyard walls dropped scores

of well-armoured axemen.

It was impossible to defend themselves against

this sudden onslaught and the last thing Sojan heard

as an axe haft fell on his helmet and blackness fol-

lowed blinding light was:

"Take them alive. They will suffer more tonight!"

7. Sojan at Sea

SOJAN AWOKE with a piercing pain in his head which

quickly disappeared. Looking about him he found

that he was lying on a comfortable couch in a well

furnished room which seemed to have an indefin-

able "something" wrong with it.

Then he realised what it was. Every article of

furniture was clamped to the floor and the windows

were small square openings in the walls, just below

eye-level.

He was in a ship's cabin. Obviously one of the

ships in the harbourthat was why the men who

had attacked him had worn seafaring garb. Which

ship though? He didn't know. Doubtless he would

find out soon enough. Could it be the purple ship of

death which swayed at anchor in Minifjar harbour?

It was likely, this business was mysterious enough

for anything.

He walked over to the port hole and looked out.

No, the purple ship could be seen from there. Then

what ship was this?

He went back to the couch after trying the door

which he found locked as he had expected.

He waited an houra long houruntil the bar on

the door was lifted with a creak and the door swung

open.

To his surprise, he found himself staring into the

face of Parijh, the Ufffjirian who said:

"Welcome aboard the Sea Crinja my friend!"

But the man who stood behind Parijh caught the

adventurer's attention most of all. It was his War

Lord's son, Nornos Rique of Hatnor!

"Shiltain!" swore Sojan when he saw him.

"What?"

"Explanation later, Sojan, we were lucky to rescue

you. Right now you're not very welcome. My fault, I

suppose, for giving no hint that I would be going

but there was no time."

"But how did I get out of Orfil's hands?"

"It's a long storytoo long to relate here. Mean-

while, we sail for the Sea of Demons!"

"What?"

"We're sailing dangerous waters Sojan, for we

play a dangerous game in which the whole planet is

at stake. Do you want to come on deck?"

"Thanks."

The three men climbed the long ladders to the

poopdeck. Nornos Rique shouted orders as sails were

set and men moved to their oars. All the men were

well built fighting men.

Sojan looked back to where the huge purple galley

swayed at anchor like a dead ship becalmed in the

terrible weed jungle of the Black Ocean. She gave no

signs of following and soon the sails were billowing,

oars creaked in unison and they were on the open

sea, bound for the mysterious Sea of Demons.

Like all ships, there was continual movement

aboard. Men scurrying up and down the rigging,

guns oiled and cleaned, the shouts of the mate giving

orders.

The ship comprised three decks. Two raised fore

and aft and a middle deck which was little more

than a raised platform over the oarsmen's pits on

port and starboard. In the centre of this deck there

was another slightly raised platform measuring about

thirty feet upon which was the single mast. At the

base of this mast a drummer satbeating out a steady

rhythm which was followed by the oars who took

their timing from the drum.

On this platform, also, was the heavy artillery and

something which Sojan had never seen before

harpoon guns, twelve of them, five a side and an-

other two fore and aft.

It was obvious that peaceful trading with the tribes

along the Shortani coast was not the object of this

particular voyage.

Suddenly, Sojan remembered his comrades.

"What happened to my friends?" he asked.

"They're all aboard the Purple Arrow, that cursed

ship of Death you saw in Minifjar harbour," an-

swered Rique. "You see, Sojan, we only had time to

free you before we were discovered. My men and I

swam across and boarded her silently last night. We

finally found you and, judging by your snores, you

were in a drugged sleep. There were four others

with you but they were so much dead weight that

we could only take you and secretly leave knives in

their shirts with which to aid themselves if they

have the chance. I'm sorry, Sojan, but it is too late to

go back for them now even if it were practical."

"You are right, of course, Rique," answered Sojan,

"but I would that I could help them!"

Now the tall Sea Crinja was in open waters, beyond

sight of land. Bound for the terrible Sea of Demons

where few ships ever sailedand returned. And, in

the days they sailed towards their destination, Sojan

pieced together the ominous tale of the Old Ones

and how the Priests of Rhan sought to conquer Zylor

with their evil aid.

It seemed that word of the plot was brought to

Uffjir first. This country lies due North of Rhan on

the Shortani coast and is generally better informed

about the island of Mystery as it is sometimes called

than is the rest of Zylor.

The Uffjirian monarch, King Ashniophil, had feared

to make public the news as it would very likely force

the Rhanian priesthood into swifter action. Instead,

he had sent a messenger to enlist Nornos Rique's aid

as, if the worst ever happened, Hatnor was the most

powerful country on the whole planet. Nornos Rique,

naturally, had not thought it wise to notify his father

at once as he knew the other's aptitude to make

quick, but sometimes hasty decisions and this is

what Uffjir was trying to prevent.

Unfortunately, at the time of the messenger's com-

ing, the Princess Asderma had been with Rique and

had overheard everything. She threatened to betray

Nornos Rique to the Rhanians unless he paid her a

fabulous amount of money.

Knowing that even when she had the money, she

would be dangerous, Rique decided to go into hid-

ing. He had had to kidnap the girl and ride for Rhan

in an effort to come to terms with the rulers or, if

this failed, destroy or capture their leaders and their

strange unhuman allies.

After several detours, he finally reached Minifjar

but not before the Princess had escaped and fled to

Orfil who had promptly ridden for Minifjar himself

where a ship (one of the purple fleet of the Rhanian

Theocracyor Priest Rulers) awaited him in case

just such an emergency as this should occur. The

mercenary's questions had aroused his interest when

he had overheard them at the inn and he had taken

Sojan prisoner. Only to be foiled by the Uffjirian

messenger who was acting as a rear-guard for Nornos

Rique. The rest Sojan knew.

Now it was a race to get to Rhan first.

8. The Sea of Demons

IT WAS a race to get to Rhan first. The Purple Arrow

would take the comparatively safe way there by sail-

ing down the coast of Poltoon until safer waters

were reached (namely the Poltoonian Ocean) and

back to Rhan via these waters.

The Crinja, however, would attempt to sail through

the Demon Sea, cutting off a considerable part of the

distance. They knew little of what they had to fight

against. The Arrow did not know of their plan and

was relying on the greater speed to catch the Crinja

and either destroy it or beat it to Rhan and have it

destroyed then. If the Crinja could reach Rhan first,

it would have several days start and the fate of the

world would be decided in those days. Why the

Arrow had not sailed earlier, they knew not, but

guessed that they were waiting for someone.

It was a day's sail until they would reach the

Demon Sea and in that time, Sojan got to know his

companions better.

Parijh, the Uffjirian, proved to be a humorous

man. Cheerful in the face of every danger they had

had to meet. When necessary, he was an excellent

swordsman, but preferred to keep out of what he

called 'unnecessary brawling'. This often gained him

a reputation of cowardliness but, as he said, it was

an asset rather than otherwise, for what better oppo-

nent is there than the one who underestimates you?

Sojan had to agree with this statement and a strong

feeling of comradeship and mutual respect grew be-

tween them as they sailed ever nearer to the Sea of

Demons.

Nornos Rique himself captained the Crinja. Rique

was a tall man with a face that, though not hand-

some, had a dependable and rock-hard ruggedness

and eyes of steel grey.

The mate was, as is usual on Zylorian naval craft,

either privateer or part of an authorised Navy, a

cavalry captain by the name of Andel of Riss who,

although inclined to make independent decisions

without consulting anyone first, was a good man in

any kind of fight, and worth four of any man in the

crew, who were all fine men and who admired him

and respected him as only seamen can respect a

man. They would also prove this in a fight with man

or the elements.

The custom of placing cavalry men as seconds-in-

command of ships is not as strange as it seems and

the custom evolved thus:

At one time in the not-so-ancient history of Zylor

a strong rivalry developed between seamen and

landsmen. It became so bad that if a war came, the

land forces could never rely on the naval forces

and vice versa.

It was the idea of assigning landsmen to learn the

ways of the sea and naval officers to get to know the

cavalry and infantry that saved them from chaos,

and nowadays the two forces worked together in

perfect harmony.

Later, on the evening of the third day out of Minifjar

they were sailing a sea which was similar to any

other sea but which, according to the maps, was the

feared Sea of Demons.

"We'd better anchor here and sail on at daybreak,"

Nornos Rique decided, and he gave the order to

drop anchor. The anchor chain rattled down for sev-

eral seconds before stopping with a jarring clank.

"Water's too deep, sir! Anchor won't take!" yelled

Andel.

"Then we daren't drift. Ship oars and set sail on

your course."

"Yes, sir!"

Night fell forming an atmosphere of decay and

death which could almost be smelled or touched.

But apart from this, nothing happened save a faint

scraping from time to time along the side of the boat

which was attributed to some heavy sea-weed or a

piece of drift wood.

The twin suns rose and the green dawn came,

sending shadows and atmosphere scurrying over the

horizon. The sea was green and shone like dark jade

with some of jade's intangible mistiness.

Oars smashed into it, ploughing it in bright foam-

flecked furrows, and the monotonous beat of the

drum began.

Sojan and his comrades ate breakfast in an atmo-

sphere of gloom.

"It's this confounded sea!" suddenly roared Andel,

rising from his chair and crashing his fist into his

open palm. "Yit! By the time this voyage is over,

there'll be men's lives lost and most likely we'll all

be on the bottom!"

"Calm down, Andel, we'll come to any danger

when we get to it," Nornos Rique said.

Andel grunted sullenly and subsided.

Two depressed hours followed until:

"Yit take us!"

This oath was followed by a piercing scream which

tailed off into a choking gasp.

The four men rushed on deck. Most of the crew

were at the starboard rail, staring downward to where

a red foam flecked the white.

"Turn back, sir, you must turn back!" One hyster-

ical seaman rushed towards Nornos Rique screaming.

"Calm down, and tell me what happened!"

Fear was in the man's eyes. A terrible fear border-

ing on madness. He babbled out his tale.

"Aa thing,sirit crept up on Mitesh andoh,

sirit grabbed him by the throat and jumped over-

board!"

"Is that all?"

"It's enough, sir!" muttered another of the men.

"What did this 'thing' look like? Who saw it

clearly?"

"I did, sir."

It was the man who had commented a second

before.

"Well?"

"It was a kind of green and brown. Scaly. By Yit,

sir, it looked like a man might look if his mother had

been a fish!"

"You mean this animal washuman?"

"Not human, sir. But it had a man's body sure

enough. And his face was pointed, like, sir. And his

eyeshis eyes were green, like the rest of him, and

seemed to rot you when he stared at you!"

"All right. Thank you. Take this man below and

give him something to drink!"

"Yes sir. Do we turn back?"

"No! You all knew there was danger!"

"Danger, yes sir, but not fromfrom devils!"

"Get belowwe sail on!"

Back in their cabin, Sojan spoke.

"I've heard old folktales, Rique, about occurrences

such as this one. Now I know why the ancients

called this the 'Sea of Demons'."

"Do you think they areorganised in any way?"

"I've never heard of them being anything but in

large numbers!"

"Perhaps this was a warning, then?"

"I think it might have been."

"We'd better set all guns in readiness. Those har-

poons will come in useful. I had them mounted in

case of meeting any of those large saurians that

inhabit the Poltoonian Ocean. But it looks as if they'll

be needed for a different 'game' now!"

The ship's oars began to creak again. But was the

beat of the drum less sure? Were the oars a heartbeat

slower? It seemed to the men standing on the

poopdeck that this was so.

Towards the middle of the day, the atmosphere of

death grew and suddenly from the sea on four sides

of the vessel the weird inhabitants of the Sea of

Demons rose and attempted to board them.

But this time they were ready and the guns sent

forth a steady stream of deadly missiles, driving the

shrieking horde back into the sea.

"They went quickly enough!" yelled Andel jubi-

lantly.

"Too quickly. They'll be more wary next time and

they'll be back at night for sure!"

And night did fall and with it strange sounds

which rose from the water and chilled the blood of

the men on board.

But this time the crew were prepared and their

searchlights stabbed the gloom, picking out the gro-

tesque figures of the sea-people.

The crew moved forward, their yells mingling with

the strange hissing cries of the sea-people. Sabres

flashed in the searchlight glare and the blood of

seamen and the man-like monsters mingled on the

deck, making it difficult to get a footing.

The ship was a contrast of glaring light and total

blackness. Men leaped from shadow into blinding

gleam or disappeared into murky darkness. Men's

breath was streaming in the cold night air. Men's

battle cries pierced the shadows where light failed.

And Sojan and his companions were in the thick of

it, their swords lashing this way and that at their

inhuman adversaries. Sojan's war-cry spurred on the

men and slowly, then swiftly, they pushed them

back and the body of the last monster to invade their

ship crashed over the rail to splash into the murky

waters below.

There was an audible sigh from the sweating men.

"We've pushed 'em back once, lads, and by Yit,

we'll push them back from here to Rhan if needs

be!" cried Sojan. With the thrill of victory still in

their hearts, their pulses tingling with conquest, the

men's voices rose in assent.

A brief count found two sailors suffering from

wounds where the talons of the sea-people had ripped

them, while three more men were missing, obvi-

ously dragged down by the sea-people.

"We should reach Rhan in a day," said Nornos

Rique.

"Or the bottom," broke in Andel gloomily.

But the monotonous day ahead was broken only

by the screaming of sea-birds as they passed the

outlying islands of The Immortal Theocracy of Rhan

as it was called. This "immortal theocracy" was little

more than Rhan itself and a group of four islands

inhabited mainly by primitive tribes, most of whom

dwelt in the interior, anyway, and had probably

never heard of Rhan.

As they neared Rhan, Sojan felt misgivings. Would

they succeed in carrying out their plan? Or would

their perilous journey be in vain.

It was with these odd questions in his mind that

he followed his friends down the gangplank and

down a series of narrow lanes to a private house

owned by a society known to those few holding

positions of trust in the Hatnorian Empire, as the

"Friends of Hatnor." These "friends" were generally

native Hatnorians carrying forged or, as in some

cases, real papers giving assumed names as well as

assumed nationalities.

Three long knocks and two short ones three times

repeated gained them admission.

As they walked along the narrow corridor to the

main living room they began to feel just a little more

secure, even though they were deep in the heart of

the enemy's cityJhambeelo.

But as the door swung open and friendly light

flooded into the dark corridor they were taken aback!

"Hullo, Sojan," grinned Red. "I don't think I've

met your friends?"

"By Yit! Red, how did you get here before us?"

cried Sojan.

"Simple. I flew!"

"What? No airship could make the distance."

"You're quite right. I didn't come by airship. Banjar,

here, brought me!"

For the first time, the comrades noticed what ap-

peared to be a hunchbacked, rather tall, man with

piercing blue eyes and aquiline features. Dark-haired,

with a swarthy complexion.

"To snap the bow in half," said Red, using a term

common on Zylor which means roughly"To cut a

long story short," "Jik, Wanwif, Selwoon and myself

succeeded in staving a rather large hole in the bot-

tom of the Purple Arrow. Naturally enough, it was

not long before we were beginning to regret this as

the water was rising steadily in the hold. Then, as

we were all good swimmers, I thought that the only

way to escape drowning would be to enlarge the

hole and get out that way. So in turns we widened

the hole and, with a great deal of difficulty, pulled

ourselves under the keel of the boat and up into the

open water. We lost Wanwif, I'm sorry to say. He

didn't make it. Well, after that we found that we

would have been better off drowning in the ship as

there was no sight of land. I learned afterwards that

we were in the Black Ocean and this didn't help as

the stories I've heard of the Black Ocean are any-

thing but cheerful. But believe it or not, after swim-

ming in a Westerly direction for an hour or so, we

were picked up by a little fishing vessel, oared only,

manned by some natives of Yoomik which is the

largest of the Rhanian group next to Rhan itself.

"The people looked after us but soon we got weary

of hanging around their village and decided that an

exploratory trip into the interior of the island would

be the only thing to break the monotony. We trekked

for several days until coming upon the village of

Banjar's peoplethe Ascri.

"The Ascri at one time were enslaved by the

Rhanian Priesthood and still bear a grievance against

them. It was Banjar, who, when he had heard that I

believed you were going to Rhan, suggested that he

fly me there. We landed at night and made our way

here. Banjar's people are advanced in many of the

crafts and sciences and they have an asset which

helps them tremendously. Show Sojan and his friends

your asset, Banjar!"

Banjar grinned and stood up. Unfolding a pair of

huge wings.

"My people, I believe, are descended from the

ancient winged mammals who used to live on Zylor.

Just an off-shoot of evolution, I suppose. But one

which has proved of great help to my people who

can travel great distances at great speeds and al-

though we are few in number, we can elude any

enemies by leaving the ground and escaping that

way. As my friend says, 'It is a great asset'!"

Formal introductions were made and food eaten

but when this was finished Sojan spoke to Red.

"Have you managed to find out anything which

might prove useful to us, Red?"

"I have indeed, my friend, I have found out some-

thing which, with your courage and skill and a great

deal of luck, will save the world from chaos!"

9. Prisoners in Stone

RED'S PLAN was simple enough. Members of the se-

cret society of the "Friends of Hatnor" had found an

ancient plan of the Great Temple which was both

chief place of worship and the centre of the Priest-

hood's rule in Rhan. There were three tunnels lead-

ing into it. Old sewers, long since disused. Two

were cul-de-sacs, having been walled up. But in the

last, the walling had been a hasty job and the bricks

used to seal it had collapsed. However, these tun-

nels were still guarded at the other end. Some said

by Palace Guardsbut others said simply that they

were guarded by "something". Even if the foe was

human it would take an incredibly brave man to

venture the rotting tunnels.

"Why not an army?" asked Andel. "Surely a great

many men would be safer than one?"

"Safer, yes, but certainly not so secret. Every ac-

tion we make must not be detected by the Priest-

hoodotherwise we are lost. We can only make a

very wide guess at what power these Old Ones

wield and it is our aim to stop them using itnot

bring it down upon our headsand the rest of the

world's heads, also."

"I see," said Parijh, "then let me be the one to go.

I offer not out of heroicswhich are extremely bad

taste in any casebut I am more accustomed to

stealth than these sword-swinging barbarians with

me." He grinned.

"Ho! So that's what we are, are we?" roared Andel.

"I'll have you know ..."

But the comrades would never hear the rest of

Andel's forthcoming witticism for Red broke in: "Be

a bit quieter, Andel, or you'll have the whole of the

Rhanian Soldiery on our heads."

"Sorry," said Andel.

"No," continued Red, "I think Sojan should go.

He is better for the job than anyone else. He has

barbarian training, he is cat-footed, lynx-eyed and

can hear a sword sing in its scabbard a mile away. I

think he will succeed in getting through more than

any other man in our company!"

"Then it will be I, that's settled," said Sojan with

satisfaction. "When and where do I start?"

"You start now, and I will lead you to the en-

trance of the tunnel. I suggest that you take a rifle,

an axe, your shield and your long sword. Half-armour

would be advisable, also."

"Then I shall take your advice," Sojan laughed

and proceeded to don half-armour. This consisted of

greaves for his legs, and a breastplate and helmet.

Then he was ready and prepared to follow Red

down winding backstreets to a small turning near

the Great Temple. Here, Red lifted a rusted cover to

reveal an equally rusted ladder leading down into

darkness.

"Good luck!" was all he said as Sojan slipped

down into the gloom and sought about for hand-

and foot-holds on the ageworn rail. Then the lid was

replaced and Sojan found himself in utter darkness.

Down he fumbled, sometimes missing footing

where one of the metal bars had rusted away, once

nearly falling when his groping hand instead of clos-

ing on solid metal closed on damp air. But at last he

was on the uneven floor of the disused sewer, peer-

ing into the gloom. He followed the wall along for

what seemed an eon, stumbling over fallen bricks

and refuse. At last he sensed an obstruction ahead

and he unsheathed his sword and felt the reassuring

butt of his heavy pistol in his hand. On he went,

past the fallen wall untilsuddenlythere was no

more tunnel. Or so it seemed. His right hand, which

had been groping along the wall touched nothing.

But after the first brief shock he grinned to himself.

This was the right hand turn of the tunnel. Soon he

would meet the Guardians.

And meet them he did for, with a soul-shaking

shriek, two of the mysterious guardians were upon

him. Huge reptilian things, red-eyed and red-mouthed

with teeth reaching a foot long and razor sharp.

Sojan, shocked by their sudden attack, took a step

backwards, hitched his rifle to his shoulder and fired

straight into the mouth of the foremost beast. It

shrieked again but still came on. Hastily he dropped

the rifle and replaced it with his heavy axe and long

sword. But before the beast reached him it had stum-

bled and fallen with crumpling forelegs, writhing in

a fit of agony which ended with one abrupt shudder

of death.

The other monster was checked for a moment,

sniffed the corpse of its companion and then voiced

another spine-chilling shriek which was half hiss and

half human cry. Sojan met it with sword lashing and

axe whining through the air about his head. Back

went the monster but it returned in an instant, clutch-

ing at Sojan with its claws which almost resembled

human handsthough hands with six inch steel tal-

ons on the ends of each finger. Sojan stumbled back-

wards, his axe cutting and hacking at the hideous

thing, his sword slashing into its throat again and

again until at last it was down in a death agony that

lasted minutes.

Pausing to wipe his weapons clean of blood and to

pick up his rifle, Sojan moved on down the tunnel,

feeling a little more cheerful now that he knew his

foe and had conquered it.

And, abruptly, he was at the end of the runnel

and a similar steel ladder, in better condition, lead-

ing upwards. Warily he clambered up. Rifle, axe and

shield strapped across his broad back and his sword

firmly clenched in his teeth.

There was a metal cover here, too, and he lifted it

cautiously to be blinded for a moment by the sudden

gleam. He had been so long in darkness and the

semi-darkness of the tunnel that he blinked hard for

several seconds until his eyes became accustomed to

the light.

Silently he eased his body through the narrow

hole and just as softly replaced the cover. He was in

a lighted corridor with torches on either side. The

corridor was short and had a door at each end.

Which door? He decided immediately to take the

door which led farthest away from the tunnel. At

least he would be a little deeper into the Temple and

nearer the Inner Room in the centre which housed

the Old Ones.

Gradually he pushed the door until it swung open.

He thanked the Gods of Light, Yit and Corrunj, that

they had not been locked.

Down another corridor he sped, cat-footed as ever,

wary hands on sword and rifle. His armour glinted

in the torchlight and his shadow loomed black and

huge on the wall.

Most of the priests would be at rest, he knew, but

it was equally certain that guards would be posted at

strategic points and absolute caution was necessary.

He had a rough plan of the Temple printed in his

mind but the maze of corridors which he was follow-

ing and which ran deeper and deeper into the heart

of the Temple were complicated and were probably

or more recent origin, for the map had been very old.

But cautious as he knew he must be he was cer-

tainly not slow. For every heartbeat counted. He had

to reach the chamber of the Old Ones somehow and

discover whoor whatthey were and what their

motives were for allying themselves with the evil

Priesthood of Rhan.

The murmurs of voices. The laughs of men. The

clank of sword-scabbard against armour. At last, a

guarded entrance. Was he near the strange sanctu-

ary of the Old Ones?

The men's backs were to him. This was not the

time for heroics, for a cry would mean discovery;

and discovery he must avoid. He raised his rifle and

brought it down on the head of one guard while

with his other hand he chopped at the back of the

other man's neck. They both collapsed without a

murmur. Looking up and down the intersecting cor-

ridor to make sure he had not been seen, he grabbed

the two bodies by their loose clothing and pulled

them back into the shadows. No time to hide them.

And no time to hide himself. For the clank of steel-

shod feet resounded down the corridor. He hugged

the wall and prayed to his ancient gods that he

would not be discovered.

Sojan heard the steps come nearer and nearer,

and then, miraculously, fade away again. Risking

discovery, he peered round the wall and saw an-

other passageway. Down it strode two guards and

one of the infamous High Priests of Rhan, the rulers

of the place. Cat-footed as usual, he followed them.

This corridor was not very well lighted but, unlike

the others, it had doors set in the walls.

Sojan hoped that one of these would not open.

Suddenly the priest stopped.

"Wait here," Sojan heard him say. No time to

think, now, he must act. Into the nearest apartment

and pray to Yit that it was unoccupied.

Luck! The rooms were empty. These, Sojan could

see, were the apartments of the High Priests. No

monkish sparsity of furniture herethese rooms were

lavishly furnished and decorated. Grinning, Sojan

bounced down on to the bed and breathed a prayer

of relief. Then he was up again and taking in his

surroundings. On one wall hung several of the long

flowing robes which the High Priests wore.

One of the customs of these men was to go

veiledto give them a little more security from the

assassin, Sojan guessedand also to enable them to

slip from the Temple and mingle with the people

without fear of being recognised. This was one of

the reasons why the people of Rhan were so easily

kept in subjection by the evil priest-Rulers.

But there was a chance, though Sojan knew it was

a slim one, that he could don one of these robes and

enter the Inner Chamber and meet the mysterious

Old Ones face to face.

Quickly he slipped into the robe, stuffing all but

his sword and pistol under a nearby couch, and

hoping that they would not be discovered. His sword

and pistol were well hidden by the folds of the robe

and he could keep his armour on.

Out now, and down the passage, past the loung-

ing soldiers who sprang to attention and saluted him

with the usual Zylorian saluteclenched fists against

temples and a short bow from the waist.

Sojan acknowledged the salute by a curt nod of

his head. The veil hid his features entirely, and if he

was unmasked by some mishaponly the other High

Priests would know whether he was a fraud or not.

So, comparatively safe, Sojan moved along the corri-

dor towards the huge, metal-studded door which

was the portal to the Inner Chamber.

It was unlocked, and the guards on each side of it

stood away respectfully as Sojan opened it.

At first he could see nothing, the room was lit by

one torch which cast shadows everywhere. Then,

from one corner of the large chamber, a voice spoke.

It was a voice of infinite weariness, full of lost hope

and the knowledge of an eternity of despair.

"Why trouble us again, Priest, we have promised

to do your bidding? And we keep our wordif you

do not."

Sojan realised that instead of the evil forces he had

expected, here were prisoners; slaves rather than

allies of the Priesthood.

"I'm no priest," he said, "if I knew who you were

I might help you even!"

"Is this another trick, Priest," murmured the voice,

although this time there was a little hope in it.

"No trick. I'm a sworn enemy of the priesthood of

Rhan. I represent the rest of Zylor, who have no

wish to become enslaved by.the Rhanians. Yet rumour

has it that you are allied with them." He squinted

into the darkness. "Who are youor what?"

"We are the old inhabitants of Zylor. We lived

here before ever the shining ships of humanity sprang

from distant planets in a desperate attempt to reach

another habitable planet. They thought that the end

of their world had come. As it happened their world

did not die, but it was too late then, they had taken

all their knowledge out into space with them, and in

the long journey from Galaxy to Galaxy much of

their knowledge perished, for the journey took cen-

turies to complete.

"By the time the new generations reached this

planet, their ancestors had died and Man had to

start again, almost from the beginning. These Men,

who called themselves "Lemurians" lived peacefully

with us for many hundreds of years and we helped

them as much as possible, for we are a very ancient

race and had more knowledge than ever the ances-

tors of the Lemurians, although of a different kind

for while Man concentrated on improving his body,

we concentrated on improving our minds and could

control mighty elements with our wills. Eventually

the Men became frightened of us and sent us away

(there were only a few of us living in far-flung colo-

nies then; now we are even less)."

"But how did you become the slaves of these

priests?" asked Sojan. "What happened?"

"Although there were many men who feared us

and called us Things of Evil and similar names, there

were others who began to worship us for our pow-

ers, calling us gods and setting up altars and Tem-

ples to us.

"Just as some men are foolish, some of our num-

ber were foolish and began to think that perhaps

they were gods after all. They dwelt in the Temples

and had sacrifices made to them and took part in

meaningless rituals. The priests soon found their

weaknesses, however, and decided that they could

rule the people if they frightened them by telling

them of the wrath of the gods and so on. They

succeeded in capturing us and imprisoning us. I was

one of the foolish ones, our contemporaries have

long since left this planet in search of another, unin-

habited by Man, with whom they cannot live in

peace.

"You may have read in your history scrolls of the

mighty Theocracy which dominated the world at

one time. Rhan is now all that is left of the Theo-

cracya remnant of a great and terrible nation! The

people rose against their oppressors, country by coun-

try, until the evil Priesthood was driven back, further

and further, to seek refuge on this island, the origi-

nal capital of the old Imperial Theocracy. It was here

that the cult, based on worship of us, was spawned

and, if you can help us, it is here that it will die.

Otherwise a new Black Age shall cover the world in

a cloak of death!"

"But," cried Sojan, "if you do not wish them to

rule Man then why do you help them? Why do you

lend them your powers to destroy the great Nations

of Zylor?"

"They have promised us freedom, O, Man! Free-

dom after thousands of decades. Freedom after eons

of despair. We would follow our brothers, we would

travel the infinite lengths of Space and Time were

we once released. We would see Suns and Planets,

green things. Seas and Plains. For us these things

are worth more than life. We are of them more than

Manfor we, like the planets and the stars, and the

grass that grows for ever, are almost immortal. We

have no bodies, as Man knows bodies, no senses as

Man interprets senseswe are Minds. You can see

that the temptation is great! We were not strong-

willed to begin with, we were proud of Man's petty

ceremonies. Now that he offers us Light and Free-

dom again, we must accept. Unless there is another

way."

"There may be another way," Sojan said. "If you

will but tell me how you are imprisoned, perhaps I

can release you!"

"There are certain minerals, rare and almost un-

known, which have the properties that lead has com-

pared to radium. Radium cannot harm or pass

through lead. Similarly, although we can pass through

most minerals and life forms, we are imprisoned if

we enter a certain precious stone. We can enter it,

but by some strange trick of nature, our beings can-

not pass back through it. Thus we were enticed,

centuries ago, into these blocks of ermtri stone. The

only way in which we can escape is by someone

outside boring shafts into the blocks and thus cut-

ting channels through which we can pass. Do you

understand?"

Dimly Sojan understood, though his brain was

shaken by the effort of trying to imagine beings so

utterly alien to Man, yet in some ways akin to him.

He picked up the torch and cast its light towards the

centre of the hall. There on an altar, covered by a

crimson cloth, rested five large blocks of some dark,

cloudy blue substance. Likelike blue jade. It was a

stone that Sojan, who had travelled the whole of his

planet almost, had never seenhad never, what is

more, heard ofnot even in legends.

"I understand," he said, "what tool will cut it?"

"Steel, sharp steel will bore into it. Have you

steel?"

"Yes. Will it hurt you?"

"No, it will leave no impression."

Wiping sweat from his forehead and hands, Sojan

moved towards the blocks. He drew his sword and

clambered up on to the altar. Placing the sharp point

of his blade on top of the first block, he turned it

round and round. Feeling it bite deeper and deeper

into the strange substance he became aware of a

strange tingling which seemed to flow up his sword

and into his body, he couldn't define it but it was

not unpleasant. Suddenly there was a dazzling burst

of green and orange brightness and something seemed

to flow from the hole that he had bored, flow out

and upwards, lighting the room. He heard no words,

but in his mind there was a great sense of joyof

thanks. Then, one by one he saw the other blocks,

broken by the same strange power, open and the

green and orange brightness flow from them.

Then they took on a slightly more solid shape,

until Sojan could make out eyes and circular bodies.

These, then, were the Old Ones. Perhaps in a mil-

lion, million years, man too would have succeeded

in being able to form the atoms of his body into

whatever shape he desired. Perhaps, these beings

once were Men? That would explain the strange

kinship Sojan felt for them. A kinship which his

Lemurian ancestors felt also, before their witnessing

of such alien powers changed their finer feelings

into those of fear and hate.

"Before you leave," Sojan begged, "I crave one

request as a price for your release."

"Anything!"

"Then when I am out of this building and safely at

sea, destroy this place of evil so that the power of

the priests will be shattered for all time and such an

evil can never rise again!"

"Gladly we grant you this. We will wait here until

you are at sea. But tread carefully, we cannot help

you to escape."

Thanking them, Sojan turned about and left, sword

in hand. But in his exultation he had forgotten the

soldiers outside and they stared in amazement at the

sword in his hand and the sweat on his face. This

did not seem to them any High Priest.

Taking quick stock of the situation, Sojan spoke to

them.

"II had a little difficulty with one of the bolts on

the interior," he lied, "I had to use this sword to

loosen it . . ."

With a puzzled look, the men bowed and saluted,

but there was doubt in their eyes.

"A priest would not go unveiled for anything," he

heard one of them murmur as he entered the room

which he had left previously. "He doesn't seem a

priest to me! Here you, stop a minute!"

But Sojan had bolted the door and was hastily

donning his weapons again. The men began to bang

on the door and more men came to see what the

noise was about.

"That's no priest," he heard someone say, "The

High Priest Thoro is conducting the Ceremony of

Death in the Outer Temple! He won't be back for

hours!"

"Batter the door down you fools," came a voice

that was obviously that of one in authority, probably

a High Priest.

Anxiously, Sojan looked for another exit. There

was only a curtained window.

He parted the curtain, and looked outside. It was

still dark. He looked down. A courtyard scarcely ten

feet below. With luck, he thought, I can jump down

there and escape as best I can. He put a foot on the

ledge and swung himself over, dropping lightly to

the grass of the courtyard. In the centre of the court-

yard a fountain splashed quietlya scene of peace

and solitude. But not for long. He saw a face at the

window he had so recently quit.

"He's down there," one of the soldiers shouted.

Sojan ducked into the nearest doorway, opposite

the room he had left. He ran down a short, dark

corridor and up a flight of steps. No sign of pursuit

yet. Panting heavily he ran in the direction he knew

an exit to be. It would be guarded now, he knew, for

the whole Temple was by this time alert. And so it

was. With his usual good luck, Sojan had succeeded

in making the exit unchallenged. But there would be

no such luck here, with five huge soldiers coming at

him.

Again he had no time for heroics. His pistol came

up and two of his would-be killers went down. The

other three were on him now and his sword cut a

gleaming arc about his head. His battle-axe shrieked

as if for blood as he carried the attack towards his

foes instead of they to him. Nonplussed for a sec-

ond, they fell back.

That falling back was for them death, for now

Sojan had some kind of advantage and he made full

use of it as he drove blow after blow, thrust after

thrust into the men.

Bleeding himself from several wounds, Sojan came

on, down went one man, then another. Now the last

warrior, fighting with desperation hacked and par-

ried, and sought an opening in Sojan's amazing

guard.

None came, the man sought an opening too often,

lunged forwardand almost pinioned himself on

Sojan's blade. Back he tried to leap, clumsily. A

perfect target for a whistling, battered axe to bury

itself in helmet and brain.

Leaving his axe where it had come to rest, Sojan

fled the Temple. His heart pounding, he finally

reached the house where his friends waited.

"Come," he cried, "I'm successfulbut we must

make the ship immediately, all of us, else we all die.

I don't know what they intend to do."

His companions realised that there was no time

for an explanation and followed him wordlessly.

A frantic race for the docks. One brief skirmish

with a City Patrol and then they were on board. Up

anchor, out oars, castoff.

And as the ship sped from the harbour they looked

back.

There came a blinding flash and then a deep,

rolling roar as the great Temple erupted in a sudden

burst of flame. Then, as they peered back at the city,

there was blackness again. The Temple was not

burningthere was no Temple now to burnit had

been dissolved.

As they watched, Sojan and his friends saw five

streaks of blue and orange flame rise skyward and

rocket upwards and outwardstowards the stars.

"What was that?" gasped Nornos Rique.

"The Old Ones," smiled Sojan. "I'll tell you a tale

which you may not believe. But it is a tale which has

taught me muchas well as giving me a valuable

history lesson!"

The voyage back was not a boring one for Sojan's

companions as they listened to his strange tale.

But what of the Purple Galley you ask, what of

Orfil and the Princess who betrayed Rique? That,

readers, is a story which is short and sad. They, too,

attempted to sail through the Sea of Demons in

pursuit of Sojan and his companions.

But they were not so lucky.

10. The Plain of Mystery

THE WIND tore at the rigging of the tiny air-cruiser as

it pushed bravely into the howling storm.

Four men clung to the deck rails whilst a fifth

strove to steer the tossing gondola.

"Keep her headed North!" yelled Nornos Rique to

Sojan.

"At this rate we'll be tossed on to Shortani unless

the wind shifts!" he yelled back.

Parijh the Uffjirian grimaced.

"I've been meaning to go home for some time!" he

called.

"You'll be home for your own funeral unless some-

one gives me a hand with this wheel!" cried Sojan.

Sojan, Nornos Rique, Parijh, Andel and Red, the

five men who had saved their planet of Zylor from

the evil priest-rulers of Rhan some months ago, were

returning to Hatnor after being the guests of honour

at several banquets held to celebrate their triumph.

Sojan, Rique, Andel and Red had been uncomfort-

able about the whole thing, only Parijh, always glad

of the limelight, had enjoyed himself thoroughly.

The storm had sprung up quickly and they were

now battling to keep the little dirigible into the wind

which drove them steadily southwards.

"Wouldn't it be better to land, Sojan?" Andel

shouted.

"It would be, my friend, if we knew where we

were. There's every likelihood of getting out of this

trouble into something worse."

Suddenly there was a loud snapping sound and

the wheel spun throwing Sojan off balance and on to

the deck.

"What was that?" yelled Parijh.

"Steering's gone! We can't attempt to repair it in

this weather. We'll just have to drift now!"

The five trooped down into the tiny cabin. Even

there it was not warm and they were all depressed

as they shivered in their cloaks and attempted to get

some sleep.

Morning came and the storm had not abated. It

lasted all through that day, the wind ripping into the

ship and sending it further and further South.

"There's never been a storm like this in my mem-

ory!" Nornos Rique said.

The others agreed.

"Further North," said Andel, "they're quite fre-

quent. Lasting for days, so they say."

"That's true," said Sojan.

By midnight of the next night the storm finished

and the sky cleared of the clinging cloud. The stars,

their constellations unfamiliar to Earth eyes, shone

brightly and Sojan took a quick bearing.

"We're over Shortani all right," he muttered. "Well

over. In fact, I believe we're near the interior of the

continent."

Beneath them the scene was one of peace rather

than that of death and mystery. Great plains, wa-

tered by winding rivers, lush forests, rearing moun-

tains, proudlike gods looking down upon men.

Here and there herds of strange animals could be

detected for the moons were very bright. They were

drinking and did not look up at the airship gliding

silently above them.

In the morning Sojan and Andel set to work on

repairing the broken steering-lines whilst the others

looked down at the peaceful-seeming country be-

neath them.

All the time they worked they drifted further and

further into the interior.

"If we drift much further Sojan, we won't have

enough fuel to get us out again. Remember, we only

had enough for a short journey!" Parijh called up to

him where he was working on the steering gear.

"Yit take us! I hadn't thought of that," cried Sojan.

"But there's nothing we can do until this steering is

fixed. Work as fast as possible Andel or we'll be

stranded here!"

But repairing the steering wires and readjusting

the rudder, especially sitting in the rigging with only

a flimsy safety line between you and oblivion, isn't

easy and it took Sojan and Andel several hours be-

fore the motors could be started up again.

"There's not enough fuel to make it back to

Hatnor," Sojan said. "But if we're lucky we'll make

a civilised country on the Shortani coast!"

Now there was nothing they could do but hope

and the men relaxed, watching the wonderful sce-

nery beneath them and speculating on what kind of

men, if any, lived there.

Red, who played a Zylorian instrument called a

rinfrita kind of eight-stringed guitar, sang them a

song, based on an old legend about these parts. The

first verse went something like this:

"There's many a tale that has been told

Of Phek the traveller, strong and bold!

But the strangest one I've ever heard

Is when he caught a shifla bird."

"What's a shifla bird?" enquired Andel curiously.

"Oh, it's supposed to be as big as an airship and

looks like a great lizard."

His companions were amused at this story, and all

but Sojan, who was looking over towards the West,

laughed.

"Don't worry too much," said Sojan calmly, "but

is that anything like your shifla bird?"

And there, rising slowly from the forest, was the

largest animal any of the adventurers had ever seen.

Earth men would call it a dragon if they saw it. Its

great reptilian jaws were agape and its huge bat-

wings drove it along at incredible speed.

"It seems there was some truth in the legend,"

muttered Red, licking dry lips and automatically fin-

gering his pistol at his belt.

"There's always some truth in legends," said Sojan,

"however incredible."

The thing was almost upon them now, obviously

taking their cruiser for some kind of rival. It was as

big as their cruiser although its body was about half

the size whilst its wings made up the rest of its

bulk. It was a kind of blueish grey, its great mouth

a gash of crimson in its head whilst wicked eyes

gleamed from their sockets making it look like some

supernatural demon from the Zylorian "Halls of the

Dead"

"Drop, Sojan, drop!" cried Nornos Rique as the

men stood for a moment paralysed at this sight of

something which they attributed only to the story

scrolls of children.

Sojan whirled, rushed over to the controls and

pushed several levers which opened valves in their

gas-bag and caused the ship to lose height quickly.

The shifla swooped low overhead, barely missing

them and causing them to duck automatically. Sud-

denly there came a crashing of branches, the ripping

of fabric and the harsh snap of breaking wood. The

ship had crashed into the forest. The men had been

so busy trying to escape from the danger above

them that they had forgotten the forest beneath them.

Sojan lifted his arm to shield his face and flung

himself backwards as a branch speared through the

ship as if it were a fish and nearly speared him at the

same time. Eventually the noise stopped and, al-

though the ship was swaying dangerously and threat-

ening to fall apart any moment, sending the men to

destruction, Sojan and his friends found that they

had only bruises and scratches.

Sojan's barbarian instincts came to the rescue. Cat-

footed as ever he clambered out of the wreckage on

to the branch which had almost killed him.

"Quick," he yelled, "after me!"

His friends followed him quickly, Parijh panting

with the effort. They moved cautiously along the

branch and finally reached the trunk of the tree.

Down they clambered, easily now for the tree was

full of strong branches and it was only a drop of four

or five feet to the ground.

Sojan looked up to where the airship dangled, its

great gasbag deflated, the gondola smashed and torn.

"When that falls," he said, "we'd better be some

distance away for it's likely that the engine will

explode."

"There go our supplies and rifles and ammuni-

tion," said Nornos Rique quietly.

"We've got our livesfor the present at least,"

Sojan reminded him. "We'll have to head steadily

Northwards and hope that we don't strike a moun-

tain range. If we are lucky we can follow a river

across a plain. Several plains adjoin civilised or semi-

civilised territories don't they, Parijh?"

"One of them runs into my own country of Uffjir,

Sojan, but there's one chance in fifty of making it!"

"Then it looks as if we'll have to chance it, Parijh,"

Sojan replied slowly, looking over towards the East.

"But at least we shall be able to ride. Theresee?"

They looked in the direction in which he was

pointing. About a mile away, a herd of myats grazed

placidly.

"Fan outwe should catch them easily if we

organise properly," Sojan called.

Slowly, so that they would not disturb the ani-

mals, Sojan and his friends closed in on the myats.

Once trapped they were easily caught for, unlike

most animals used as beasts of burden, myats were

bred originally for the sole purpose of carrying man.

Now that they were mounted, the friends made

good time in the direction in which they were headed.

Some days later Sojan caught sight of a strange gleam

in the distanceas if the sun was glancing off a highly

polished surface.

"Head in that direction," he called to his compan-

ions. "There seems to be a building of some kind

over there!"

And sure enough, it was a building. A great glis-

tening domed construction, rising hundreds of feet,

so it seemed, into the air. It was built of a similar

stone to marblebut what was it? And why was it

standing alone in such a savage wilderness and (this

troubled the companions more than anything) were

there men using it now?

"The only way to find out who or what is in there

is to go nearer," said Andel.

"You're right," agreed Sojan. "Let's go!"

They forced their steeds into a quick trot.

They dismounted silently and made their way cau-

tiously to the wide entrance of the place, which

seemed to be unguarded.

There were windows high above them, seeming to

be set in rooms situated at different levels in the

building. Part of the roof was flat but most of it rose

in a magnificent dome. Although there were no signs

of corrosion at all, the men got the impression that

the building was centuries old.

"There seem to be no stairs in the place," mused

Sojan, looking around him at the gleaming marble

halls which they had entered. To his left were two

sheets of shining metal, seemingly set into the walls

for no reason. To his right was an archway leading

into a room just as bare as the one in which they

now stood.

"Wonder what these are?" Red said, brushing his

hand across one of the metal sheets.

Instantly there was a faint hum and the sheet of

metal disappeared upwards, revealing a smallwas

it a cupboard?

Red stepped warily into the alcove, sword in hand.

At once, the sheet of metal hummed downwards

behind him.

"By Yit. He's trapped!" cried Sojan.

He brushed his own hand across the metal, but

nothing happened. For several minutes he tried to

open the metal door but it seemed impossible. How

Red had done it, they could not tell.

Suddenly from the outside came a yell.

Rushing into the sunlight they looked upand

there was Red, looking very cheerful, grinning down

on themfrom a window of the tenth storey, the one

nearest the roof.

"How did you get up there?" called Nornos Rique.

"The 'cupboard' took me up! It's a kind of moving

box which lifts you up to any storey you wish.

Though I had to go all the way up. There were lots

of buttons to press, but I dare not press any of them.

After I'd got out, the doors closed again. I tried to

get back in but the doors at that end wouldn't move.

It looks as if I'm stuck here for life."

He didn't look as if he was particularly worried

about the prospect.

Comprehending, Sojan rushed back into the great

hall and again passed his hand over the metal "door."

It hummed upwards. He didn't step in immediately

but waited for his friends to join him.

"The ones who built this place must have been

wonderful engineers," remarked Sojan. "And by the

way, I recognised the language in which the direc-

tions for the operation of that thing were writtenit's

old Kifinian!"

"What?" exclaimed Parijh. "You mean that the

ancestors of the Kifinians built this?"

"Obviously. Otherwise how do you explain the

language?"

"From what you learned at the Temple of Rhan,

Sojan," mused Nornos Rique, "the ancestors of the

entire planet, so far as human beings like ourselves

are concerned, came from another planet thousands

of years agoperhaps this was built before the race

spread and degenerated. But what could it be?"

"I think I know," answered Sojan. "Notice how

the whole area around the building is entirely

treelessa flat plaina few shrubs, now, and other

vegetation, but for the most part flat. This place was

a landing field for airships of some kind. We have,

as you know, similar landing fields all over the civi-

lised parts of Zylor. This place was a control station

probably."

Suddenly Red who had been standing by the win-

dow called to his friends.

"Look, down there!" he yelled. "Savages, hundreds of

them!"

Below them swarmed a silent mass of strange near-

human creatures. They all carried spears and broad-

bladed swords. They were covered in short, matted

hair and had long tails curling behind them.

"We seem to have violated taboo ground, judging

by their actions," said Parijh who knew the people

better than the rest, for his race occasionally traded

with them. "They won't enter themselves, but they

will wait until we come outas come out we must,

for food."

"The best thing we can do," said Andel, "is to

look around this place and see if there is any other

way out."

"Good idea," agreed Sojan, "if you see any more

of those metal plates, try to open them."

They split up and each explored a certain section

of the floor. Soon they heard Andel call from the

centre of the building. Rushing to the room from

which he had called they were astounded to see a

large, opened panel. This one revealed a kind of

bridge spanning a drop which must have gone right

down to the foundations of the building. The bridge

led to a huge, streamlined shell of gleaming metal

fitted with triangular fins.

They stepped on to the bridge and moved single

file across it until they reached a door. Scowling

faintly, Sojan deciphered the ancient hieroglyphics

on it.

"Here we are," he said, pressing a button. "To

Open." And open it did.

"It's obviously an airship of some kind," said Andel,

who was the most mechanically minded of the five.

"Probably a ship similar to the ones in which our

ancestors came to this planet."

"You mean an airship capable of travelling

through space?" said Sojan.

"Perhaps," said Andel, "but also travelling from

continent to continent probably. If only we knew

how to operate it!"

They finally managed to find the control room of

the ship. All around them were tiers of dials and

instruments. Working quickly, now that the script

was becoming more familiar to him, Sojan deciphered

most of the captions on the instruments. Set on the

main control panel were levers marked, "Automatic,

Emergency, Poltoon, Automatic, Emergency, Jhar",

etc. The names were those of continents.

"We can't stay here all the time," said Sojan. "If

we stay we will starve to death, if we go outside we

die, we might as well risk it." So saying, and with-

out waiting for his friends' advice he pulled the

lever marked Poltoon and stood back.

There came a gentle hum as the door through

which they had entered closed. Another hum grew

steadily louder and the entire roof of the building

opened out letting in the sunlight. Then a hiss and a

rumble like thunder and Sojan and his companions

were thrown to the floor. Still the rumble increased

until blackness overcame them and they lost con-

sciousness.

Sojan was the first to recover. Looking through

the forward porthole he saw a sight which to him

was terrifying. The velvet blackness of outer space,

stars set like diamonds in its ebony beauty.

There was another rumble from the depths of the

ship. With animal tenacity he sought to cling to

consciousness. But it was no good. He collapsed

once more on the floor of the ship.

He awoke a second time to see a blue sky above

him and green vegetation beneath him. His friends

rose on shaky legs.

"We're not much better off, it seems," grinned

Sojancheerful now. "We're in the Poltoonian Wil-

derness. The nearest civilised land is Tigurn. See

over there are the remains of a port similar to the

one on the Shortani plain."

He pulled another lever. Immediately the port-

holes disappeared and they had the sensation of

moving downwards at great velocity. A high pitched

whine and they stopped. A panel slid open and a

small bridge moved outwards over a drop of some

five feet above the ground.

"There was probably a landing stage at this point,"

said Sojan with the air of an ancient professor deliv-

ering a lecture. "Anyway," he laughed, "we can

drop the last few feet."

When they reached the ground they stood back.

Then the faint purr of machinery and the doors

closed. Another sound, not quite so smooththe

chug-chug of an airship motor. The companions

turned and saw several large airships of standard

pattern circling above them. They flew the banner of

Pelira, a country which had allegiance to Hatnor.

Flying low, the captain of the airship inspected them,

saw that they were not the strange monsters he had

expected and landed his craft lightly fifty feet away

from them. They ran towards it.

The look of astonishment on the captain's face

was ludicrous. He immediately recognised the com-

panions who, since their conquest of the priest-rulers

of Rhan had become national heroes.

"Whatwhat ?" was all he could get out at first.

"How're you fixed for fuel, friend?" laughed Sojan.

"Wewe've got a full tank, sir, but how . . . ?"

"Then head for Hatnor," grinned the adventurer.

"We'll explain on the way."

11. The Sons of the Snake-God

"WHO SEEKS to set foot in Dhar-Im-Jak?"

A harsh voice rang across the harbour to the mer-

chantman Kintonian Trader, which ran at anchor there.

The captain cupped his hands into a megaphone

and roared back at the soldier.

"Sojan Shieldbearer, late of the court of Nornos

Kad in Hatnor, mercenary swordsman! Seeking

employment!"

"I've heard of him. Very well, we need good sword

arms in Dhar-Im-Jak, tell him he may land!"

Traani, captain of the Trader, called down to Sojan

who sat sprawled in his cabin.

"They say you can land, Sojan!"

"Right, I'll get my gear together."

Ten minutes later, a tall figure stepped on to the

deck of the ship. His long fair hair was held back

from his eyes by a fillet of metal, his dark blue eyes

had a strange, humorous glint in them. Over a jer-

kin of green silk was flung a heavy cloak of yellow,

his blue breeches were tucked into leather boots.

Upon his back was slung a long and powerful air

rifle, on his left arm he carried a round shield. From

a belt around his waist were hung a long vilthor and

a pistol holster. Sojan the Swordsman was looking

for work.

Later that day, in an inn near the city centre,

Sojan met the man to whom he had been directed

when he had told the authorities of the harbour

what kind of employment he was seeking.

"You're looking for employment in the ranks of

the regular military, I hear? What qualifications do

you have?" he said.

"I was commander of the Armies of Imperial Hatnor

for nearly a year. In that time I succeeded in stop-

ping a rising in Veronlam, a similar rising in Asno, I

organised the Poltoonian barbarians when Nornos

Kad was deposed and restored him to his throne. I

and four others were instrumental in utterly destroy-

ing the would-be conquerors of Zylorthe Rhanian

Theocracy. I have been involved in several minor

border wars, but of late things have quietened down

and I thought that I would try my luck somewhere

else. I heard of the impending war between the city

states of Dhar-Im-Jak and Forsh-Mai and decided

that I would like to take part."

"I have heard of you, Sojan. Your remark about

Rhan jogged my memory. I feel that you would be a

great asset to us. We need more professional sol-

diers of your calibre. As you know, both Dhar-Im-

Jak and Forsh-Mai have been on friendly terms for

hundreds of years, neither of us had any use for

regular armies. Then about a year ago this new reli-

gious cult took over the ruling of Forsh-Mai and

quickly formed an army of soldiers, spies, trouble-

makers and all kinds of undercover men. It was only

recently that our own spies brought us the news

that, as we suspected, Forsh-Mai was preparing to

march into Dhar-Im-Jak and take over our republic."

"Have you any idea when they intend to attack?"

"In two weeks time, no less, I'm sure."

"Then we must work fast. I would be grateful to

know what kind of command you intend giving

me?"

"I shall have to discuss that with my superiors. I

will naturally let you know as soon as possible."

Edek rose, downed the last of his drink and, with

a short nod, left the inn. Just as Sojan was rising,

there came a scream from the alley outside. Sword

out, he rushed for the door to see a girl struggling in

the grip of several burly fighting men. They were

obviously bent on kidnapping her and Sojan lost no

time in engaging the nearest hirelng. The man was

an expert swordsman, his thrusts were well timed

and it was all Sojan could do, at first, to parry them.

The man's companions were still holding the girl

who seemed to be making no attempt to get free.

The clash of steel was music to him and a grim

fighting smile appeared on his lips. Suddenly he felt

a hard blow on the back of his head and the lights

went out.

He regained consciousness in a small room, barred

on both door and windows. Standing over him were

two men; one held a water jug in his hand with

which he was dousing Sojan.

"So our hard-headed mercenary is at last awake; I

see!" The tone was gloating. The man's face did not

belie the impression his voice gave. His thick black

locks and beard were curled and oiled.

Upon his fingers were heavy rings, his nails were

tinted with gold. Sojan looked at him in disgust. The

bejewelled fop signalled to his companion to throw

some more water at Sojan. Instantly Sojan rose and

knocked the jug flying across the small cell.

"If your manners were as fine as the silks you

wear, my friend, I should take you for some sort of

man!"

The fop's face twisted for a moment and he half

raised his hand. Then he smiled and dropped the

hand to his side.

"We'll allow the wolf some time in which to cool

the heat of his temper as water seems to be no use,"

he murmured. "Come Yuckof, let us leave this

placeit smells!"

Sojan signalled to the guard who was locking the

door.

"What place is this, friend?"

"You're in the Castle of Yerjhi, swordsman, we

caught you nicely didn't we? That ruse in getting a

girl to pretend that she was being captured was Lord

Yerjhi's idea. He's a clever one. You'd be better off

to be a little more civil to him, he is thinking of

employing you."

Several hours later, Yerjhi returned with the same

escort.

"Now, Sojan," he smiled, "I can understand your

annoyance at being locked up in this placebut it

was the only way in which we couldumconvince

you of our sincerity when we offer you fifty thou-

sand derkas to take command of our armies and lead

them to glorious victory for the State of Forsh-Mai.

We, the Sons of the Snake, will conquer all. Every-

thing will be yours. What say you man, is that not a

fair proposition?"

"Aye, it's fair," Sojan's eyes narrowed. He de-

cided to bluff for a while. "Fifty thousand you say?"

"That and any spoils you can take for yourself

when we loot Dhar-Im-Jak!"

"But what's this 'Sons of the Snake' you mention?

Do I have to join some secret society to wield a

sword for fifty thousand derkas?"

"That is a necessary part of our offer, Sojan. We

are, after all, doing this for the glory of Rij, the

Snake, Lord of the World and the After World, Mas-

ter of Darkness, Ruler of the ..."

"Yes, yes, we'll forget that for a moment. What

does it involve?"

"First a meeting of all the major disciples, myself,

the General-in-Command (who will take orders from

you while the conquest is in progress), my major-

domo, the two priests who inventhmmwho

spread the Truth of the Snake."

"But why this mumbo-jumboif you want to con-

quer your enemy, why not just do it? I can't under-

stand what you're trying to do."

"Then briefly I will explain. The two cities have

been at peace for hundreds of years. Men and women

from the states have intermingled with each other,

intermarried. Apart from the names and boundaries,

we are practically the same people. We need an

excuse, man, don't you see? We can't send a man to

march against his brother or even son unless he

thinks that there is something worth fighting for.

This, my dear Sojan, is ahmmHoly war. Quite

legitimate. We arehow shall I put it?spreading

the Word of the Snake God with the Sword of Jus-

tice! Part of our indoctrination campaign, actually,

that last bit."

"Right! I'll join." Sojan had hit on a daring plan.

"When do I become an initiate?"

An hour later, Sojan stood in a darkened room. In

front of him was a long table and at it sat men dad

in robes decorated with serpents.

"Let the ceremony begin," he intoned.

Now was the time to act. They had given Sojan

back his sword along with his other equipment and

he now drew it. With the blade humming he downed

the two nearest men. Three left, three wary men and

led by one who had been described as the finest

swordsman in Shortani.

Luckily only two of the men were swordsmen

the other was almost helpless. In the fore Yerjhi,

cowl flung back and his face a mask of hate.

"Trick me would you," he hissed. "We'll show

you what we do to dogs who try to turn on Yerjhi!"

Sojan felt a lancing pain go through him and he

felt the warm blood as it trickled down his left arm.

With renewed energy he launched himself at Yerjhi

who was taken off guard for a moment. Clean steel

pierced a tainted heart and the man toppled back-

wards with a short death-scream.

With the fake "Sons of the Snake God" exposed

for what they were, what amounted to civil war was

averted and the two cities resumed their friendly

relations. Once again Sojan had done a major service

for a cause in which he believed.

12. The Devil Hunters of Norj

THE LAST rays of Zylor's second sun were just wan-

ing when Sojan reined his myat and stared down

into the green valley below.

He glanced at the crude map before him.

"This must be the Valley of Norj. It seems to be

unexplored according to the map. Strange that no

one has ventured into it."

Strange it was; for, even in the dusk, Sojan could

see that the valley was lush and green. A river

wound through it and brightly plumed birds sang

from the branches of tall trees. A seeming paradise.

"It will make an excellent place to camp," thought

the mercenary as he guided his mount downwards.

Later that night, he made his camp in a small

natural clearing in the forest. His myat was tethered

nearby and his campfire glowed cheerily. The night

was warm and full of forest smells.

After eating his meal, Sojan climbed between his

blankets and was soon asleep.

It was just after midnight when the strange noises

awakened the warrior.

There they were againa peculiar hissing screech

and the pounding of hooves; the cries ofmen, and

the vicious cracks of whips.

Sojan raised himself on one elbow, hand reaching

for his sword. The myat stirred uneasily and swished

its great tail from side to side.

The noises drew nearer and then subsided as they

fell away towards the West of the valley.

Sojan did not sleep any more that night but kept a

watchful eye open. The rest of the night was un-

eventful and in the morning, Sojan cooked himself a

big meal which was meant to last him the day, for

he intended to investigate the noises he had heard

the night before.

Riding slowly, with eyes always scanning the

ground, Sojan soon found the tracks that the inhabi-

tants of the valley had made. There were two dis-

tinct sets of tracks. One similar to those of a myat

although with subtle differences, seemingly lighter.

The others were entirely unfamiliar. Three-toed tracks

like, and yet unlike, those of a birdand considera-

bly larger. The beast that had made them as obvi-

ously a quadruped of some kind, but other than that

Sojan could not tell what kind of animal had made

themthere were fourlegged birds he could think

ofand none of these he had heard about were as

large as this.

There had been at least ten riders, and it seemed

that they had been chasing one or perhaps two of

these bird-beasts. Probably some kind of hunt,

thought Sojan, yet what kind of men were they who

hunted at the dead of night?

Sojan rode on, following the tracks in the hope

that he would find some clue to the mystery. He

came across a steep inclination, the tracks ended

here in a flurry of mud andblood. Then the tracks

of the beasts the men had been riding continued,

and they had ridden for a short while parallel with

the bluff and then forced their animals to ride up it.

Sojan did the same, the beast slipped occasionally

and nearly slid back but eventually it reached the

top. From there Sojan saw a strange" scene.

A battle of some kind was going on between two

groups of men. Near a squat black-stoned tower,

five men, one mounted, were endeavouring to check

a horde of armoured warriors who rushed from the

tower. Beasts similar to Sojan's myat but hornless

and almost tailless stood waiting.

The mounted man held the tethering reins of the

other four animals while he cut at two of the armoured

men with a battleaxe held in his right hand.

Although the mounted man was clad in armour,

the other four were dressed only in jerkins of coloured

cloth and divided kilts of leather. They were unshod

and carried no sheaths for the weapons, mainly

swords, with which they defended themselves. It

seemed to Sojan that they were attempting to escape

from the armoured warriors, one of whom, dressed

more richly, and darker than the other, stood in the

rear and urged them on in a language which was

unfamiliar, yet strangely familiar, to Sojan's ears.

But there was no time to ponder over this now;

the men needed help and Sojan, in a more curious

than chivalrous mood, intended to aid them and

perhaps find some answer to the mystery.

His long spear was out, his shield up and he

forced the myat into a wild gallop down the hill,

screaming to his gods in a barbarian war-shout.

His savage thrust caught the first of the armoured

warriors in the throat and stayed there, the spear

jerking like a tufted reed in a storm. His sword

screamed from its scabbard as he pushed deeper

into the melee of cursing men.

Taking this chance of escape while the enemy

were still confused, the other men quickly mounted

their beasts. Sojan was still in the thick of it, sword

lashing everywhere and dealing death with every

stroke. One of the riders looked back, saw the mer-

cenary still engaged and spurred his own beast back

to where Sojan fought.

Grinning his thanks to Sojan he covered the mer-

cenary's retreat with his own slim blade then followed.

Howling, the warriors attempted to pursue on foot,

were brought back by their leader's frantic cries and

scrambled round the back of the building.

The armoured rider called to Sojan in the familiar,

yet unintelligible tongue, and pointed towards the

East. Sojan understood and turned his myat in that

direction. Behind them their pursuers were whip-

ping their steeds in an effort to overtake them.

Deep into the forest they rode, leaving their ene-

mies far.behind. For perhaps three hours they de-

toured until they reached the end of the valley where

a sheer cliff rose. Brushing aside some shrubbery,

the armoured man disclosed an opening in the base

of the cliff.

Ducking their heads, the six rode through, the last

man replacing the camouflage.

The passage ended in several connecting caves

and it was in one of these that they stabled their

mounts and continued on foot to the cave at the far

end. Here they slumped into chairs, grinning with

relief at their escape.

The leader, the man in armour began to speak to

Sojan who stood bewilderedly trying to understand

the language in which they questioned him. Vaguely

he began to realise what it wasit was his own

tongue, yet so altered as to be scarcely recognisable.

In an hour he could understand most of their speech

and in two he was telling them how he had come to

the Valley of Norj.

"But I am curious to find out who you areand

why men hunt giant four-legged birds at midnight,"

he said. "Who were the men from whom you

escaped?"

"It is a long story to explain in a few words," said

Jarg, the leader, "but I will first attempt to tell you a

little of the political situation here, in Norj.

"There are two distinct races living heremen like

ourselvesandanother race whom I scarcely like

to define as 'men'. Ages ago our people reached this

valley after a long sea voyage and trek across Shortani.

we came to this valley and settled in it and it was

not for some time that we learned that another peo-

ple lived at the far end of the valley. A race of grim,

blackhaired and black-eyed men, who hunted at night

with steeltipped flails and who remained in their

castles during the day. They did not trouble us at

first and eventually we became used to the hunts,

even though they sometimes passed through our

fields and destroyed our crops. We were secure, we

thought, in the valley and there was no man curious

enough to venture too near the black-stoned castles

of the Cergii.

"But soon men and womeneven childrenof

our people began to disappear and the hunts be-

came more frequent for the Cergii had found a new

sporta different quarry to the Devil-birds which

they breed and release at night to hunt with their

whips. It was then that the mangled bodies of our

tribesmen began to be foundlashed to death.

"They were capturing our peopleand hunting

them! So it was that we declared war upon these

beasts, these whom we had never harmed nor at-

tempted to harm.

"Over the years traitors to our race went over to

the enemy and became their warriorsyou saw some

of them todayour once great race dwindledand

became fugitives, living in caves andif captured

the quarry of the Hunters of Norj. Still we carry on

warfare with thembut it is hit and run fighting at

best. The four you see here were captured recently

and it was more by luck than anything that I man-

aged to bribe a guard to release them. I came last

night with weapons and myatsyou see that the

breed had changed as has our speech. Unfortunately

the timing was imperfect and the first sun arose

before we could make good our escape. We were

seen and would all be dead or captured had it not

been for you."

"There must be some way to defeat them!" cried

Sojan. "And if there is a wayI swear that I will

find it!"

Sojan and the fighting men of Norj, some sixty in

all, stood in the main cave, waiting for nightfall.

Plans of Sojan's attempt to overcome the Cergii,

who hunted men with steel-tipped flails, had been

discussed and Sojan and Jarg, the leader, had reached

a decision.

The Cergii were few, it seemed, about ten in num-

ber. They were immortal, or at least their life-spans

were incredibly long and the race had gradually dwin-

dled to ten evil sorcerer-warriors whose only plea-

sure was the midnight hunts.

At dusk, Sojan rose, went over the final plan with

his friends, and left, heading Eastwards towards the

castles of the Cergiisome twenty in all, mostly in

an advanced state of decayonly one which housed

the Cergii and their Norjian slaves and hirelings.

The tiny Zylorian moons gave scant light and Sojan

found it difficult picking his way through the rubble

of the ruined outbuildings.

There came a faint scuffling behind him; a sound

which only a barbarian's senses could have heard.

Sojan ignored it and carried on.

Even when the scuffling came nearer he ignored

it. The sudden blow on the back of his head was

impossible to ignore, however, and a blind sense of

survival set him wheeling round, hand groping for

his sword hilt before blackness, deeper than night

swam in front of his eyes and he lost consciousness.

He awoke in a damp-smelling cell, only lit by

torchlight which filtered through a tiny grille in the

wall. The cell was obviously on a corner for the large

barred door was not in the same wall as the grille.

Peering through this door was an unkempt war-

rior clad in dirty armour and holding a spear.

He glared short-sightedly at the mercenary with

half-mad eyes. His mouth gaped pen showing bad

teeth and he chuckled loudly.

"You're the next game for the Hunters of Cergii,"

he cackled. "Oh! What a feast the beasts will have

tonight."

Sojan ignored these words, turned over and at-

tempted to ease the pain in his aching head.

After many hours in which he attempted to get

some rest, Sojan was jabbed roughly awake by the

guard's spear butt.

"What is it now?" he enquired as he raised him-

self to his feet and dusted off the straw in which

he'd been sleeping.

"Heh, heh!" cackled the man. "It's almost mid-

nighttime for one of our little hunts!"

Sojan became tense. He had a plan based on the

knowledge that if he was captured he would most

certainly be forced to partake in one of the hunts of

the Cergiias the quarry.

"Very well," he said, trying to sound as fright-

ened as possible.

The courtyard was dark and gloomy, one moon

showing through a gap in the ruins. The strange

smell of an unknown animal came to Sojan's nostrils

and he gathered that these were the "hounds" of

the Cergii that Jarg had told him about.

He heard the stamping of the myats' hooves and

the jingle of harness and, as his eyes became accus-

tomed to the darkness, made out the vague outlines

of tall mounted men.

"Is the quarry ready?" called out a voice as dead

and cold as the ruins around them.

"Yes, Master, he is here!"

"Then tell him that he will be given quarter of an

hour's startthen we will be upon his scent!" the

voice went on.

The guards stood aside and Sojan was offalong

a route already planned nights ago. His plan was a

daring one and one which called for a great deal of

courage. He was acting as a human snare for the

Hunters.

Down a narrow forest trail he ran, the trees and

grasses rustling in the cold night breeze, the sound

of small animals calling to each other and the occa-

sional scream as a larger animal made its kill.

The air in his lungs seemed to force itself out as he

ran faster and faster. The time was getting short and

he had several more minutes yet until he could reach

the agreed spot.

Soundsnot the sounds of the forest, but more

ominousbegan to reach his ears. The sounds of

cracking whips and thundering hooves as the Hunt-

ers and their silent hounds rode in pursuit.

Faster and faster he ran keeping his eyes open for

the landmark which would afford him comparative

safety.

At last it came into sight, just as the cracking of

whips and pounding hooves seemed to be on top of

him. Past the tall rock he ran, into a tiny gorge

flanked on each side by towering rock walls.

Up the side of the cliff he scrambled as the Hunt-

ers entered the gorge. Then:

"Now!" roared Sojan, and as he did so sixty death-

tipped arrows flew down and buried themselves in

the bodies of many of the Cergii.

Their curses and frantic screams were music to

Sojan and his friends as they fitted new arrows and

let fly at the sounds.

Sojan leapt down the rocks again, a long sword in

his right hand.

A shadowy rider loomed out of the darkness and

an evil face, white teeth flashing in a grin of triumph,

aimed a blow at Sojan with his own blade.

Sojan cut upwards, catching the rider in the leg.

He screamed and tumbled off his steed, putting it

between himself and Sojan.

He came upright, limping rapidly in the merce-

nary's direction. Sojan ducked another savage cut

and parried it. Down lunged his opponent's sword

attempting to wound Sojan's sword-arm. He again

parried the stroke and counterthrust towards the

man's chest.

Following up this move with a thrust to the heart,

the mercenary ended the evil hunter's life.

Most of the Cergii were now either dead or mor-

tally wounded and it did not take Sojan and his

friends long to finish off the job they had started.

"Now for their hirelings!" yelled Sojan, goading

his myat in the direction from which they had come;

his sword dripping red in the moonlight, his hair

tousled and a wildness in his eyes.

The sixty riders thundered down the narrow for-

est trail towards the castles of the dead Cergii, Sojan

at their head, voicing a battle-cry which had been

shouted at a dozen great victories for the men whom

Sojan had led.

Straight into the courtyard they swarmed, catch-

ing the soldiers entirely unawares.

Dismounting, they crashed open the doors of the

castle and poured in.

"Guard the doors!" yelled Sojan. "And all other

exitswe'll exterminate every traitor in the place!"

His first call was in the dungeonsfor there he

knew he would find the man who had been his jailer

during the previous day.

The half-crazed warrior cringed when he saw Sojan

enter sword in hand. But one look at the tall merce-

nary told him that he could expect no mercy.

Drooling with fear he yanked his own sword from

its scabbard and swung a blow at Sojan which would

have cut him in two had it not been deflected by

Sojan's blade.

Coolly Sojan fought while his opponent became

more and more desperate.

Slowly the warrior was forced back as Sojan's re-

lentless sword drove him nearer and nearer the wall.

His madness gave him immense stamina and grad-

ually he began to fight with more skill.

"Heh, heh!" he cackled, "you will soon die man!

Think not that you escaped death when you escaped

the Cergii!"

Sojan smiled a grim smile and said nothing.

Suddenly the maddened warrior wrenched a spear

from the wall and hurled it at Sojan. It plunked

heavily into his left arm causing him to gasp with

pain.

Then his eyes hardened and the warrior read his

fate in them.

"You'll die for that," said Sojan calmly.

Almost immediately the warrior went down be-

fore a blurring network of steel and died with an

inch of steel in his throat.

Sojan returned to the main hall of the castle where

his friends were finishing off the rest of the Cergii's

warriors.

"Well," he laughed cheerfully, "I must be off!"

Jarg turned. He saw the wound inflicted by the

madman's spear.

"You can't ride in that state, Sojan!" he cried.

"Oh it will heal," Sojan smiled. "It is only a super-

ficial cut! But you have work to do, restoring your

farms now that the Cergii are vanquished. I should

like to staybut this is an interesting continent with

lots to see. If I hurry I might be able to see it all

before I die!"

With that he strode from the room, mounted his

myat and cantered off, up the steep track which led

out of the valley of Norj.

"There goes a brave man!" murmured Jarg as he

watched him disappear over the hill-top.

JERRY CORNELIUS

AND CO.

New Worlds-

Jerry Cornelius

NEW WORLDS began as a magazine founded by SF

enthusiasts in the middle 1940s. A consortium pub-

lished the first few issues. This consortium consisted

of, among others, Bill Temple, Ted Carnell, Leslie

Flood, John Wyndham, Frank Arnold and Steve Fran-

ces. Later Maclarens took it over (though the com-

pany remained independent as Nova Publications

Ltd.), and published it for the best part of its career

with Ted Carnell as editor. Ted published the first

Ballard stories and the work of then-starting authors

like Brunner, Aldiss, Roberts, etc. In 1964 the circu-

lations of the magazines (Science Fantasy was also

edited by Ted) were very low and Maclarens decided

to fold the titles. David Warburton of Roberts and

Vinter Ltd., heard they were folding and decided to

buy them. Ted wanted to edit his new anthology

series, New Writings in SF, and so recommended me

as editor. Warburton wanted two editors (wisely),

one for each of the magazines. I chose New Worlds

and Kyril Bonfiglioli became editor of Science Fantasy.

My first issue, in a paperback-style format, but a

magazine in all other respects, appeared for May-

June 1964 (number 142). We ran as a bi-monthly for a

short time and then went monthly with issue 146.

Many people expected me to opt for the editorship

of Science Fantasy, since most of my work had pre-

viously appeared in that magazine, but in fact I was

interested in broadening the possibilities of the SF

idiom and New Worlds, being a much more open

title, seemed the best place to do it. My first editorial

stated pretty much the policy I have followed ever

since, though perhaps I'm a little more sophisticated

now. Also I was naive in thinking there were a lot of

authors who shared the sense of frustration which

Ballard and I had felt for some years. I tried to find

good young authors and follow what one might call

a policy of enlightened conservatismpublishing the

best of the old and the best of the new. There were a

lot of outcries when we started dealing with explicit

sex (never an important issue to us) and so on, also

when the first Ballard fragmented narratives began

to appear with The Atrocity Exhibition, also with the

rather astringent criticism of "Golden Age" masters

of SF, etc., but gradually readers began to realise

that there was value in the new stuff and it didn't

take long before they were criticising the newer stuff

in its own terms. We were crusading but we weren't

thinking in terms of tabu-breaking and so on, be-

cause the restrictions here had never been as marked

as they were in the US. We were seriously attempt-

ing to find new ways of dealing with new subject

matter and we always placed substance before style.

People have since confused our "revolution" with a

stylistic revolution, but our principal aim was con-

cerned with substance and structureit had little to

do with what Judy Merril and Harlan Ellison, for

instance, later came to term the "new wave" in US

SF. We were specifically out to perpetuate, if you

like, the European moral tradition in literature. We

hardly "rejected" the US pulp tradition, because it

had never much influenced us anyway. Some of the

writers, indeed, were quite conservative in their tastes

and stylesDisch, for instance, who became closely

associated with the magazine (and still is). While

having no prejudice against it (and admiring much

of it) we had little in common with the aims appar-

ently represented in the work of the newer (or re-

generated) US writers like Ellison, Delany, Zelazny,.

Lafferty or Silverberg. We also, of course, published

most of those writers at some stage, and were pleased

to do' so, because we always strove for a broad

representation of the best work of its kind. I feel we

published some of the best work done by them

Zelazny's For A Breath I Tarry (later reprinted, I think,

in Amazing) and several others: Ellison's Boy and His

Dog, Delany's Time Considered as a Helix, etc. But our

main raison d'etre became the publishing of what

some would call "experimental" work and when, in

1967, Roberts and Vinter suffered severe financial

set-backs (not over the SF magazines), Brian Aldiss

was responsible for suggesting to the Arts Council

(responsible for encouraging and maintaining the

arts; a government-financed agency) that they help

us. Thanks largely to the enthusiasm of Angus Wil-

son, then chairman of the Council, and letters from

various distinguished critics and academics (rallied

by Brian) we received an award which, while not

enough to support us in any waysave as a "little

magazine"gave us the moral support we needed

and I became part-publisher, putting my own money

into the magazine and going to the large, "glossy"

format we then adopted. Unfortunately the two busi-

ness partners I had to begin with showed them-

selves over-cautious and pulled out so that the

magazine schedules were thrown into confusion. Dur-

ing 1967-8 we followed an erratic schedule culminat-

ing in the banning of two issues by the two major

British distributors and the banning of the magazine

in South Africa, New Zealand, Australia, etc. All of

these areas were fairly crucial to us and if it hadn't

been for advertising we should have had to fold.

Also the newspapers came out in our favour and the

ban was technically lifted. It was at this time that a

Question was asked in the House of Commons about

public money being spent on a "pornographic" mag-

azine and it seemed for a while that we would lose

the grant. This blew over and I became sole pub-

lisher of the magazine. Foolishly, I didn't form a

company to publish the magazine, so that I became

personally responsible for the debts. From 1968 to

19711 published New Worlds. In 1970 it emerged that

the distributors had been receiving large quantities

of New Worlds and had deliberately refrained from

distributing them without telling us because they

wanted to avoid any further newspaper publicity.

Effectively we lost the income on six months' issues

and I suddenly found myself owing over 3000,

which I didn't have. This was at a time when, thanks

particularly to Charles Platt who was editing the

magazine and running the business affairs, New Worlds

had become viable. I was forced to wind New Worlds

up, publishing a last "Subscription Only" issue (No.

201) in 1971, as an independent company. Tom Dardis

of Berkley expressed an interest in doing New Worlds

as a Quarterly and Anthony Cheetham was very

enthusiastic about doing it through Sphere in this

country, so I did four issues for Berkley who then

decided that sales didn't merit their continuing the

series. I decided, though the Sphere sales were on

the increase, to cut back to two issues a year for the

time being, since the Sphere advance alone wasn't

sufficient to cover what I wanted to do and we're

still partially financing the British editions through

subsidiary income derived, for instance, from my

editing fees for the Best of New Worlds series and so

on. And, of course, I'm still paying off the creditors

for the large size issues.

The daily routine? It varied, depending on who

was publishing the magazine or, for that matter,

who was editing it, since I didn't, of course, edit it

for the whole time. The early days were fairly quiet,

with just Lang Jones and myself doing the whole

thing from an office I had in Southwark. Later I

began to work from home, going into the publisher's

office about once a week, and later still Charles Platt

joined the staff as art editor and much improved the

appearance of the paperback size issues. That pe-

riod, too, was the only time I was actually getting

paid to do it! By and large I tend to set one or two

days aside for reading. Lang Jones is our best copy-

editor and he would tend to do that (and still does)

after I'd done the rough copy-editing. We never

change stories without consultation with the author

and the author's viewpoint is always respected. Where

we have changes to suggest we tend to Xerox the

manuscript, make the suggestions on the Xerox and

send them to the author for his or her comments. If

the author disagrees we'll discuss alternatives until

we're both satisfied. This extends even to titles. The

office always ran on democratic lines, with every

editor being encouraged to encourage authors who

suited his particular taste. This meant, of course,

that I'd sometimes publish stories I couldn't stand or

that I would include stories others didn't like, but

we reached a fairly satisfactory compromise ("I'll put

this story in I think is brilliant because you're put-

ting in that story you think is brilliant.") I don't be-

lieve there's such a thing as objective literary judge-

ment for someone running a magazine and it seemed

the best way of ensuring the representation of as

many different kinds of writing as possible. The

special "New Writers" issues we have done have

largely been the work of people like Jim Sallis, Gra-

ham Hall, Mike Harrison, Graham Charnock and

Charles Platt. Through most of the magazine's ca-

reer there was always something of a "commune"

feel about the day-to-day editing, with authors and

staff getting together to discuss specific stories or

general policy. The issues about which I am happi-

est, I suppose, are the first few of the 1967-8 large

size issues where my own policies found their strong-

est expression. To me, these were the best issues

say from 173 to 176 where we got a good balance

between science and art features, artwork, good "con-

ventional" fiction and good "experimental" fiction.

Particular issues came after that which I particularly

liked but not as a "run." I enjoyed doing the special

201st issue (labelled our Special Good Taste Issue

and containing a distinctly Victorian feel!). The last

thing I can think of to say about the day-to-day

running of the magazine was that it filled the minds

of a fairly large group of us for a long timei.e.

social life for many of us was centred around the

magazine. It dominated our days. A rather heady

and hectic love affair in which the magazine could

be seen from time to time as either an inspiring

mistress or a vampiric femme fatale. Certainly the

publishing problems dominated my days and nights

for several years.

I think we accomplished a fair amount. Without

doubt we altered the attitudes of many publishers

towards the newer ideas we were promoting. We

encouraged many authors to do their best and/or

most interesting work. Many authors, for instance,

claimed that without New Worlds they would have

given up writing or that they would have become

cynical about their writing or that they wouldn't

have put so much work into something. Aldiss,

Ballard, Disch, Sladek, Roberts and others have all

said, at different times, that New Worlds encouraged

them to do their best work. We were responsible for

interesting many critics, academics and journalists in

what might be called the SF renaissance. I think we

achieved an enormous amount. If what we were

trying to do has been misinterpreted in America this

has largely been because most people received their

impressions at second-hand through, say, the Judith

Merril Year's Best and England Swings anthologies.

Judy did a lot to publicise New Worlds and was a

good friend, but her interpretations were often some-

what at odds with our views! New Worlds became a

banner in Judy's own crusadeand Judy, after all,

started the ball rolling in the US. If the issues be-

came clouded in rhetoric about "new wave specula-

tive fiction" or "The New Thing', it wasn't much to

do with us. Harlan Ellison followed Judy with Dan-

gerous Visions and I think it's fair to claim that again,

if obliquely, New Worlds supplied the impetus. I think,

however, that battles are being fought in the States

which have been over in this country for some years

everyone's settled down to doing their own thing.

There was never any danger of one idea superceding

another but it was necessary to make room for other

ideas and that, if nothing else, is what New Worlds

achieved. And our influence, if that isn't too pomp-

ous a phrase, extended well beyond the SF world in

this country, if nowhere else. We know many rock

musicians who've claimed that New Worlds gave them

the impetus they were looking for, for we know

artists, non-SF writers and poets who think the same.

A lot of our ideasand, indeed, our contributors

turned up in the pages of the "alternative" press.

We still meet readers of the large size New Worlds

who tell us it was the only magazine which gave

them any hope or spoke to them in a vocabulary

which made sense to them. And we have possibly

influenced the vocabulary (both in terms of ideas

and language) of SF-broadened its possibilities. Fail-

ures? We claimed too much for what we were doing

in the early days and are only now beginning to see

the results. We never licked the distribution problem

until it was too lateand so never reached as many

readers as we might have done. We failed completely

to convince the majority of fans that we felt writers

like Heinlein were short-changing them with bad

writing and simple-minded notions. We failed to im-

prove the standard of writing in SF, which, in the

main, remains abominable. On the other hand we

offered an alternative to readers who couldn't face

that kind of writing and, of course, we still do.

We've certainly failed to convince the majority of US

publishers concerning the merits of typical New Worlds

fiction for they plainly prefer to publish the sensa-

tionalistic and poorly-conceived SF they have always

publishedand their preference doesn't appear to

be dictated by commercial reasoning. We've failed,

perhaps, to produce a large market for the kind of

fiction we like best, but we have produced a large

enough one to make publishing that fiction a viable

proposition (which it wasn't even five years ago).

And, by and large, we've failed to get across to most

SF fans the seriousness of our intentions, the pur-

pose of our intentions. This again, perhaps, is be-

cause our particular point of view has been obscured

by interpreters. Certainly New Worlds' policy has lit-

tle to do with what most US fans would identify as

the "SF New Wave".

Which, I suppose, almost brings us to Jerry Cor-

nelius.

Jerry Cornelius began as a version of Elric of

Melnibone when, in late 1964, I was casting around

for a means of dealing with what I regarded as the

"hot" subject matter of my own timestuff associ-

ated with scientific advance, social change, the my-

thology of the mid-twentieth century. Since Elric

was a "myth" character I decided to try to write his

first stories in twentieth-century terms. The Final

Programme was written, in first draft, in about ten

days in January 1965. It began as a kind of rewrite of

the first two Elric stories, The Dreaming City and

While the Gods Laugh. By doing this I found a style

and a form which most suited what I wanted to

write about. I was elated. I borrowed as much from

the Hammett school of thriller fiction as I borrowed

from SF and I think I found my own "voice" as a

writer. Influences included Ronald Firbank and, to a

minor extent, William Burroughs (two not dissimilar

figures in my estimation). I felt, at the time, that I

had at last found a way of marrying "serious" fiction

with "popular" fiction and I had always believed that

science fiction was the form which could most easily

act, as it were, as the ideal environment in which

this marriage could take place. (This, incidentally,

was the idea which was behind much of the New

Worlds policy). SF knew how to cope with much of

the subject matter and was a vital and popular form

but was largely unable to deal with the traditional

and sophisticated moral questions found in the best

fiction, largely because its accepted forms had de-

nied any attempt authors might make to incorporate

these questionsthe form as it stood distorted and

simplified the problems. Just as Ballard found his

remedy in the form he used for Atrocity Exhibition

and the later stories published from 1965 onwards, I

felt I'd found my remedy in the form I used in The

Final Programmeby using a character who accepted

the moral questions without discussing them (the

dialogue tends to take for granted the reader's famil-

iarity with the questions and doesn't detail them

doesn't spell them out) and by supplying the reader

with a straightforward dynamic narrative which he

could enjoy for its own sake. The plot, while being

unimportant, was supplied for those who required a

plot to keep them reading. Moreover, I prefer, in the

main, books with a straightforward plot, too, so I

was trying to produce something I'd enjoy reading. I

was very pleased with the book and thought that

everyone else would enjoy it, too, if only for its

ironies and sensations. A couple of British publish-

ers asked to see it and surprised me with their strong

reactionsI'd written the book to shock, they said,

and I wouldn't get anywhere like that. It hadn't

occurred to me that the book would do anything but

amuse (if nothing else). I despaired, became cynical,

put the book aside. A copy went out automatically

to my, then, agents, Scott Meredith. In 1967 the

book was bought, enthusiastically, by George Erns-

berger, then an editor at Avon. Parts of it had been

published in New Worlds in 1965 and 1966 as an

experiment in cutting up chunks and putting them

in a different order (a mistake, I now think). By this

time I had begun what was eventually published as

A Cure For Cancer. I had started the book using

another character's name and hadn't got very far

when I realised that this was effectively a sequel to

the Jerry Cornelius novel. I put what I'd written

aside and thought about it all, eventually conceiving

the notion of writing a tetralogy of books about

Jerry, each one expanding upon the various moral

questions raised in The Final Programme. I visited

New York in 1967 and told George Ernsberger about

my scheme and George, was, again, enthusiastic.

Eventually, in 1968, I had a contract from Avon for

the remaining three books. By this time The Final

Programme had been bought by Allison and Busby

who were equally enthusiastic and had also bought

Behold the Man in its novel version. They, too, were

pleased with the tetralogy idea and guaranteed to

publish them in England. It gave me the necessary

encouragement to carry on with A Cure For Cancer

which took, in all, some three years to write, appear-

ing first as a serial in New Worlds. In 1968, The Final

Programme was published, at the time when Jim

Sallis had come over to work on New Worlds. Jim

read the book and was very enthusiastic about it.

When Lang Jones was commissioned to edit the big

hardback anthology for Hutchinson, The New SF, he

asked me for a story and I decided that I would try

to write a Jerry Cornelius story (this was The Peking

Junction)developing some of the techniques I was

beginning to feel happy with while working on A

Cure For Cancer. Jim Sallis asked me, then, if I had

any objection to his writing a Jerry Cornelius story

since, in his opinion, the JC stories were a form in

themselves. I had none, of course. He wrote Jeremiad,

which was published in New Worlds. Taking up part

of a theme I'd put into my second JC short, The Delhi

Division, he expanded from there and wrote an en-

tirely different story. Taking up part of his theme I

wrote it back into Delhi Division, which he'd so far

only seen in rough draft. The Delhi Division was the

first JC short to appear in New Worlds and was quickly

followed by Jeremiad. Once this had happened sev-

eral others who had enjoyed The Final Programme felt

that they'd like to do a story about Jerry, so shortly

afterwards there appeared stories by Brian Aldiss,

Norman Spinrad, a poem by Lang Jones, and other

stories by M. John Harrison, Maxim Jakubowski and

one other by me The Tank Trapeze. (Most of these

were eventually published in a book called The Na-

ture of the Catastrophe (Hutchinson, 1971). In the

meantime I had also begun a comic strip for It, then

the leading underground paper in Britain, with Mal

Dean, who had illustrated many of the JC stories.

The It strip sent up many of the current obsessions

of the undergroundthe mysticism, the political na-

ivete and so on. We began to alternate, with Mike

Harrison and Richard Glyn Jones taking up our

themes and us taking up their themes turn by turn.

The strip ran for about a year in It as The Adventures

of Jerry Cornelius, The English Assassin. Part of the

strip was also published in The Nature of the Catastrophe.

In our terms we found a cool way of dealing with

hot material. The essence of the stories is their irony,

their attempts to concentrate as much information as

possible into as small a space as possible, their ob-

session with contemporary imagery, their strong re-

liance on metaphorical imagery drawn from many

disparate sourcespop music, astronomy, physics,

cybernetics, etc. They are, ideally, deeply serious in

intention. Unfortunately many critics have missed

the serious points of the stories, even if they've

found the stuff entertaining. Sexual ambiguity, for

instance, is taken for granted in the JC storiesa fact

of lifebut critics continue to see that element, among

others, as "daring". In this country, at any rate, the

stories receive their most intelligent responses from

that section of the public most at ease with what's

these days called the "alternative' society, was ear-

lier called "beat" and before that called "bohemian"

i.e. people who by and large do take certain things

for granted which are regarded as shocking by the

average middle-class person. I'm not here suggest-

ing that this is good or bad, but it is a fact. Judy

Merril, for instance, regarded The Final Programme as

an "evil" book. Other people have expressed similar

reactions. I find them almost impossible to under-

stand. Perhaps people will get a better idea of the JC

novels when the whole tetralogy is complete. The

English Assassin will be out in England this year,

after three years in the writing. I don't know when

the last book, The Condition of Muzak, will appear

probably in a couple of years, maybe three or four.

I'll just have to wait patiently until then. At present,

while having reservations about the first two books,

I'm very satisfied with Assassinit's the first book of

mine I've been able to proof-read without wincing

all the way through. Presumably Holt Reinhardt,

who did Cure, will be doing Assassin in the States

sometime next year. I haven't had any information

either from Avon or from Holt, as yet. Maybe Final

Programme will get its points across better as a film.

The rights have been bought and the script written

and it's being produced by the company who did

Performance (which has something in common with

Final Programme). I heard Jagger turned down the JC

part as being too freaky and I don't know if the film

ever will be made, but it would be interesting to see

how the public reacted to it. I think the JC stories

have matured considerably since Final Programme

becoming better written and more complexand it

does disappoint me when people don't enjoy them or

find them obscure. I remember the delight I felt at

producing a book which I was sure everyone would

find at very least entertaining. I was puzzled when

some people reacted in a puzzled or even antagonis-

tic way. My own wavelengths changed somewhere

at some time. These days, for instance, I can't un-

derstand SFI read the words and they no longer

mean anything to me, even when written by a writer

I used to enjoy. So I suppose I can appreciate how

people feel when they find a JC story they can't

focus on. It isn't incidentally, anything to do with

radical alterations in life-style on my part. It just

happened at some point. Ho hum.

(Letter to reader)

In Lighter Vein

A Note on the Jerry Cornelius Tetralogy

PART of my original intention with the Jerry Corne-

lius stories was to "liberate" the narrative; to leave it

open to the reader's interpretation as much as

possibleto involve the reader in such a way as to

bring his own imagination into play. The impulse

was probably a result of my interest in Brechtan

interest I'd had since the mid-fifties.

Although the structure of the tetralogy is very

strict (some might think over-mechanical) the scope

for interpretation is hopefully much wider than of a

conventional novel. The underlying logic is also very

disciplined, particularly in the last three volumes.

It's my view that a work of fiction should contain

nothing which does not in some way contribute to

the overall scheme. The whimsicalities to be found

in all the books are, in fact, not random, not mere

conceits, but make internal references. That is to

say, while I strive for the effect of randomness on

one level, the effect is achieved by a tightly con-

trolled system of internal reference, puns, ironies,

logicjumps which no single reader may fairly be

expected to follow.

Thus, in a scene in Condition of Muzak (the end of

the section called "Outcast of the Islands"), there is a

short discussion about the Japanese invasion of Aus-

tralia and Jerry makes a reference to big egoes and

Hitler. Shakey Mo then asks if he was a character in

a children's comic and then immediately asks if Hit-

ler wasn't a police chief they'd met in Berlin. The

first reference is to Big Ego (a cartoon ostrich in The

Dandy or The Beano); the second reference is to an

earlier story of mine (a "key" story, in my view)

called The Pleasure Garden of Felippe Sagittarius (where

Hitler was a rather pathetic police chief in an imagi-

nary Berlin), leading to a reference to the fact that

the historical Adolf Hitler doesn't exist in this world.

All this happens in a couple of sentences or so and

should give the effect, among others, of time in a

state of flux, men in a state of introverted confusion,

close to fugue, and so on. But its internal logic is

straightforward: the two characters know exactly what

they are talking about. To "explain" all this, to

editorialise, would be to break the mood, break the

dramatic tensions, and ruin the effect I was trying to

achieve. The apparent obscurity should not confuse

the reader because the narrative should be moving

so rapidly that he shouldn't care if he doesn't under-

stand every reference. Similarly, if he was watching

a richly textured film, he would not expect to per-

ceive consciously every detail of every scene, dia-

logue, music, etc. They are maintained primarily by

a complicated series of prefiguring images which are

developed as the book progresses.

(Note to bibliography)

The Stone Thing

1975

A Tale of Strange Parts

Our OF the dark places; out of the howling mists; out

of the lands without sun; out of Ghonorea came tall

Catharz, with the moody sword Oakslayer in his

right hand, the cursed spear Bloodlicker in his left

hand, the evil bow Deathsinger on his back together

with his quiver of fearful rune-fletched arrows,

Heartseeker, Goregreedy, Soulsnatcher, Orphan-

maker, Eyeblinder, Sorrowsower, Beanslicer, and sev-

eral others.

Where his right eye should have been there was a

jewel of slumbering scarlet whose colour sometimes

shifted to smouldering blue, and in the place of his

left eye was a many-faceted crystal, which pulsed as

if possessed of independent life. Where Catharz had

once had a right hand, now a thing of iron, wood

and carved amethyst sat upon his stump; nine-

fingered, alien, cut by Catharz from the creature

who had sliced off his own hand. Catharz' left hand

was at first merely gauntleted, but when one looked

further it could be observed that the gauntlet was in

fact a many jointed limb of silver, gold and lapis

lazuli, but as Catharz rode by, those who saw him

pass remarked not on the murmuring sword in his

right hand, not on the whispering spear in his left

hand, not on the whining bow upon his back or the

grumbling arrows in the quiver; neither did they

remark on his right eye of slumbering scarlet, his left

eye of pulsing crystal, his nine-fingered right hand,

his shining metallic left hand; they saw only the

fearful foot of Cwlwwymwn which throbbed in the

stirrup at his mount's right flank.

The foot of the Aching God, Cwlwwymwn Root-

ripper, whose ambition upon the old and weary

Earth had been to make widows of all wives; Cwlw-

wymwn the Striker, whose awful feet had trampled

whole cities when men had first made cities; Cwlw-

wymwn of the Last Ones, Last of the Last Ones,

who had been driven back to his island domain on

the edge of the world, beyond the Western Ice, and

who now came limping after Catharz screaming out

for vengeance, demanding the return of his foot,

sliced from his leg by Oakslayer so that Catharz

might walk again and continue upon his doomladen

quest, bearing weapons which were not his protec-

tion but his burden, seeking consolation for the guilt

which ate at his soul since it was he who had been

responsible for the death of his younger brother,

Forax the Golden, for the death of his niece, Libia

Gentleknee, for the living death of his cousin, Wertigo

the Unbalanced, seeking the whereabouts of his lost

love, Cyphila the Fair, who had been stolen from

him by his arch-enemy, the wizard To'me'ko'op'r,

most powerful, most evil, most lustful of all the

great sorcerers of this magic-clouded world.

And there were no friends here to give aid to

Catharz Godfoot. He must go alone, with shudder-

ing terror before him and groaning guilt behind him,

and Cwlwwymwn, screaming, vengeful, limping

Cwlwwymwn, following always.

And Catharz rode on, rarely stopping, scarcely

ever dismounting, anxious to claim his own ven-

geance on the sorcerer, and the foot of Cwlwwymwn,

Last of the Last Ones, was heavy on him, as well it

might be for it was at least eighteen inches longer

.than his left foot and naked, for he had had to

abandon his boot when he had found that it did not

fit. Now Cwlwwymwn possessed the boot; it was

how he had known that Catharz was the mortal who

had stolen his green, seventeen-clawed limb, attach-

ing it by fearful sorcery to the flesh of his leg. Catharz'

left leg was not of flesh at all, but of lacquered cork,

made for him by the People of the World Beneath

the Reefs, when he had aided them in their great

fight against the Gods of the Lowest Sea.

The sun had stained the sky a livid crimson and

had sunk below the horizon before Catharz would

allow himself a brief rest and it was just before dark

that he came in sight of a small stone cottage, shel-

tered beneath terraces of glistening limestone, where

he hoped he might find food, for he was very hungry.

Knocking upon the door he called out:

"Greetings, I come in friendship, seeking hospital-

ity, for I am called Catharz the Melancholy, who

carries the curse of Cwlwwymwn Rootripper upon

him, who has many enemies and no friends, who

slew his brother, Forax the Golden, and caused the

death of Libia Gentleknee, famous for her beauty,

and who seeks his lost love Cyphila the Fair, pris-

oner of the wizard To'me'ko'op'r, and who has a

great and terrible doom upon him."

The door opened and a woman stood there. Her

hair was the silver of a spiderweb in the moonlight,

her eyes were the deep gold found at the centre of a

beehive, her skin had the pale, blushing beauty of

the tea-rose. "Welcome, stranger," said she. "Wel-

come to all that is left of the home of Lanoli, whose

father was once the mightiest in these parts."

And, upon beholding her, Catharz forgot Cyphila

the Fair, forgot that Cwlwwymwn Rootripper limped

after him still, forgot that he had slain his brother,

his niece, and betrayed his cousin, Wertigo the

Unbalanced.

"You are very beautiful, Lanoli," he said.

"Ah," said she, "that is what I have learned. But

beauty such as mine can only thrive if it is seen and

it has been so long since anyone came to these

lands."

"Let me help your beauty thrive," he said.

Food was forgotten, guilt was forgotten, fear was

forgotten as Catharz divested himself of his sword,

his spear, his bow and his arrows and walked slowly

into the cottage. His gait was a rolling one, for he

still bore the burden that was the foot of the Last of

the Last Ones, and it took him some little time to

pull it through the door, but at length he stood

inside and had closed the door behind him and had

taken her in his arms and had pressed his lips to

hers.

"Oh, Catharz," she breathed. "Catharz!"

It was not long until they stood naked before one

another. Her eyes travelled over his body and it was

plain that the eyes of scarlet and crystal were lovely

to her, that she admired his silver hand and his

nine-fingered hand, that even the great foot of

Cwlwwymwn was beautiful in her sight. But then

her eyes, shy until now, fell upon that which lay

between his legs, and those eyes widened a little,

and she blushed. Her lovely lips framed a question,

but he moved forward as swiftly as he could and

embraced her again.

"How?" she murmured. "How, Catharz?"

"It is a long tale and a bloody one," he whispered,

"of rivalry and revenge, but suffice to say that it

ended in my father, Xympwell the Cruel, taking a

terrible vengeance upon me. I fled from his court

into the wastes of Grxiwynn, raving mad, and it was

there that the tribesmen of Velox found me and took

me to the wise Man of Oorps in the mountains

beyond Katatonia. He nursed me and carved that for

me. It took him two years, and all through those two

years I remained raving, living off dust and dew and

roots, as he lived. The engravings had mystical sig-

nificance, the runes contain the sum of his great

wisdom, the tiny pictures show all that there is to

show of physical love. Is it not beautiful? More beau-

tiful than that which it has replaced?"

Her glance was modest; she nodded slowly.

"It is indeed, very beautiful," she agreed. And

then she looked up at him and he saw that tears

glistened in her eyes. "But did it have to be made of

Sandstone?"

"There is little else," he explained sadly, "in the

mountains beyond Katatonia."

(From The Outcast of Kitzoprenia

Volume 67 in The History of the

Purple Poignard)

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