To Rescue Tanelorn ttoew-2

  To Rescue Tanelorn

  ( The Tales of Elric World - 2 )

  Michael Moorcock

  In which we learn of the further adventures of Rackhir the Red Archer and other heroes and places Elric has hitherto encountered only in what he chooses to consider, his dreams...

  To Rescue Tanelorn...

  BY MICHAEL MOORCOCK

  The Tales of Elric World

  In which we learn of the further adventures of Rackhir the Red Archer and other heroes and places Elric has hitherto encountered only in what he chooses to consider, his dreams...

  Beyond the tall and ominous glass-green forest of Troos, well to the North and unheard of in Bakshaan, Elwher or any other city of the Young Kingdoms, on the shifting shores of the Sighing Desert lay Tanelorn, a lonely, long-ago city, loved by those it sheltered.

  Tanelorn had a peculiar nature in that it welcomed and held the wanderer. To its peaceful streets and low houses came the gaunt, the savage, the brutalised, the tormented, and in Tanelorn they found rest.

  Now, most of these troubled travellers who dwelt in peaceful Tanelorn had thrown off earlier allegiances to the Lords of Chaos who, as gods, took more than a mild interest in the affairs of men. It happened, therefore, that these same Lords grew to resent the unlikely city of Tanelorn and, not for the the first time decided to act against it.

  They instructed one of their number (more they could not, then, send) Lord Narjhan, to journey to Nadsokor, the City of Beggars, which had an old grudge against Tanelorn and raise an army that would attack undefended Tanelorn and destroy it and its inhabitants. So he did this, arming his ragged army and promising them many things.

  Then, like a ferocious tide, did the beggar rabble set off to tear down Tanelorn and slay its residents. A great torrent of men and women in rags, on crutches, blind, maimed, but moving steadily, ominously, implacably Northwards towards the Sighing Desert.

  In Tanelorn dwelt the Red Archer, Rackhir, from the Eastlands beyond the Sighing Desert, beyond the Weep ing Waste. Rackhir had been born a Warrior Priest, a servant of the Lords of Chaos, but had forsaken this life for the quieter pursuits of thievery and learning. A man with harsh features slashed from the bone of his skull, strong, fleshless nose, deep eye-cavities, a thin mouth and a thin beard. He wore a red skull-cap, decorated with a hawk's feather, a red jerkin, tight-fitting and belted at the waist, red breeks, and red boots. It was as if all the blood in him had transferred itself to his gear and left him drained. He was happy, however, in Tanelorn, the city which made all such men happy, and felt he would die there if men died there. He did not know if they did.

  One day he saw Brut of Lashmar, a great, blondheaded noble of shamed name, ride wearily, yet urgently, through the low wall-gate of the city of peace. Brut's silver harness and trappings were begrimed, his yellow cloak torn and his broad-brimmed hat battered. A small crowd collected around him as he rode into the city square and halted. Then he gave his news.

  "Beggars from Nadsokor, many thousands, move against our Tanelorn, " he said, "and they are led by Narjhan of Chaos."

  Now, all the men in there were soldiers of some kind, good ones for the most part, and they were confident warriors, but few in number. A horde of beggars, led by such a being as Narjhan, could destroy Tanelorn, they knew.

  "Should we, then, leave Tanelorn?" said Uroch of Nieva, a young, wasted man who had been a drunkard.

  "We owe this city too much to desert her, " Rackhir said. "We should defend her—for her sake and ours. There will never be such a city again."

  Brut leaned forward in his saddle and said: "In principle, Red Archer, I am in agreement with you. But principle is not enough without deeds. How would you suggest we defend this low-walled city against siege and the powers of Chaos?"

  "We should need help, " Rackhir replied, "supernatural help if need be."

  "Would the Grey Lords help us?" Zas the One-handed asked the question. He was an old, torn wanderer who had once gained a throne and lost it again.

  "Aye—the Grey Lords! " Several voices chorused this hopefully.

  "Who are the Grey Lords?" said Uroch, but no one heard him.

  "They are not inclined to aid anyone at all, " Zas the One-handed pointed out, "but surely Tanelorn, coming as it does under neither the Forces of Law nor the Lords of Chaos, would be worth their while preserving. After all, they have no loyalties either."

  "I'm for seeking the Grey Lords' aid, " Brut nodded. "What of the rest of us?" There was general agreement, then silence when they realised that they knew of no means of contacting the mysterious and insouciant beings. At last Zas pointed this out.

  Rackhir said: "I know a seer—a hermit who lives in the Sighing Desert. Perhaps he can help?"

  "I think that, after all, we should not waste time looking for supernatural assistance against this beggar rabble, " Uroch said. "Let us prepare, instead, to meet the attack with physical means."

  "You forget, " Brut said wearily, "that they are led by Narjhan of Chaos. He is not human and has the whole strength of Chaos behind him. We know that the Grey Lords are pledged neither to Law nor to Chaos but will sometimes help either side if the whim takes them. They are our only chance."

  "Why not seek the aid of the Forces of Law, sworn enemies of Chaos and mightier than the Grey Lords?" Uroch said.

  "Because Tanelorn is a city owing allegiance to neither side. We are all of us men and women who have broken our pledge to Chaos but have made no new one to Law. The Forces of Law, in matters of this kind, will help only those sworn to them. The Grey Lords only may protect us, if they would." So said Zas.

  "I will go to find my seer, " Rackhir the Red Archer said, "and if he knows how I may reach the Domain of the Grey Lords, then I'll continue straight on, for there is so little time. If I reach them and solicit their help you will soon know I have done so. If not, you must die in Tanelorn's defence and, if I live, I will join you in that last battle."

  "Very well, " Brut agreed, "go quickly, Red Archer. Let one of your own arrows be the measure of your speed."

  And taking little with him save his bone bow and quiver of scarlet-fletched arrows, Rackhir set off for the Sighing Desert.

  From Nadsokor, South West through the land of Vilmir, even through the squalid country of Org which has in it the dreadful forest of Troos, there was flame and black horror in the wake of the beggar horde, and insolent, disdainful of them though he led them, rode a being completely clad in black armour with a voice that rang hollow in the helm. People fled away at their approach and the land was made barren by their passing.

  Most knew what had happened, that the beggar citizens of Nadsokor had, contrary to their traditions of centuries, vomited from their city in a wild, menacing horde. Someone had armed them—someone had made them go Northwards and Westwards towards the Sighing Desert. But who was the one who led them? Ordinary folk did not know. And why did they head for the Sighing Desert? There was no city beyond Karlaak, which they had skirted, only the Signing Desert—and beyond that the edge of the world. Was that their destination? Were they heading, lemming-like, to their destruction?

  Everyone hoped so, in their hate for the horrible horde.

  Rackhir rode through the mournful wind of the Sighing Desert, his face and eyes protected against the particles of sand which flew about. He was thirsty and had been riding a day. Ahead of him at last were the rocks he sought.

  He reached the rocks and called above the wind.

  "Lamsar! "

  The hermit came out in answer to Rackhir's shout.

  He was dressed in oiled leather to which sand clung. His beard, too, was encrusted with sand and his skin seemed to have taken on the colour and texture of the desert. He
recognised Rackhir immediately, by his dress, beckoned him into the cave, and disappeared back inside.

  Rackhir dismounted and led his horse to the cave entrance and went in.

  Lamsar was seated on a smooth rock. "You are welcome, Red Archer, " he said, "and I perceive by your manner that you wish information from me and that your mission is urgent."

  "I seek the help of the Grey Lords, Lamsar, " said Rackhir. The old hermit smiled. It was as if a fissure had suddenly appeared in a rock. "To risk the journey through the Five Gates, your mission must be important. I will tell you how to reach the Grey Lords, but the road is a difficult one."

  "I'm willing to take it, " Rackhir replied, "for Tanelorn is threatened and the Grey Lords could help her."

  "Then you must pass through the First Gate, which lies in our own dimension. I will help you find it."

  "And what must I do then?"

  "You must pass through all five gates. Each gateway leads to a realm which lies beyond and within our own dimension. In each realm you must speak with the dwellers there. Some are friendly to men, some are not, but all must answer your question; "Where lies the next Gate?" though some may seek to stop you passing. The last gate leads to the Grey Lords' Domain."

  "And the first gate?"

  "That lies anywhere in this realm. I will find it for you now."

  Lamsar composed himself to meditate and Rackhir, who had expected some sort of gaudy miracle-working from the old man, was disappointed.

  Several hours went by until Lamsar said: "The gate is outside. Memorise the following: If X is equal to the spirit of humanity, then the combination of the two must be of double power, therefore the spirit of humanity always contains the power to dominate itself."

  "A strange equation, " said Rackhir.

  "Aye—but memorise it, meditate upon it and then we will leave."

  "We-you as well?"

  "I think so."

  The hermit was old. Rackhir did not want him on the journey. But then he realised that the hermit's knowledge could be of use to him, so did not object. He thought upon the equation and, as he thought, his mind seemed to glitter and become diffused until he was in a strange trance and all his powers felt greater, both those of mind and body. The hermit got up and Rackhir followed him. They went out of the cave-mouth but, instead of the Sighing Desert, there was a hazy cloud of blue shimmering light ahead and when they had passed through this, in a second, they found themselves in the foothills of a low mountain-range and below them, in a valley, were villages. The villages were strangely laid out, all the houses in a wide circle about a huge amphitheatre containing, at its centre, a circular dais.

  "It will be interesting to learn the reason why these villages are so arranged, " Lamsar said, and they began to move down into the valley.

  As they reached the bottom and came close to one of the villages, people came gaily out and danced joyfully towards them. They stopped in front of Rackhir and Lamsar and, jumping from foot to foot as he greeted them, the leader spoke.

  "You are strangers, we can tell—and you are welcome to all we have, food, accommodation, and entertainment."

  The two men thanked them graciously and accompanied them back to the circular village. The amphitheatre was made of mud and seemed to have been stamped out, hollowed into, the ground encompassed by the houses. The leader of the villagers took them to his house and offered them food.

  "You have come to us at a Rest Time, " he said, "but do not worry, things will soon commence again. My name is Yerleroo."

  "We seek the next Gate, " Lamsar said politely, "and our mission is urgent. You will forgive us if we do not stay long?"

  "Come, " said Yerleroo, "things are about to commence. You will see us at our best, and must join us."

  All the villagers had assembled in the amphitheatre, surrounding the platform in the centre. Most of them were light-skinned and light-haired, gay and smiling, excited—but a few were evidently of a different race, dark, black-haired, and these were sullen.

  Sensing something ominous in what he saw, Rackhir asked the question directly: "Where is the next Gate?"

  Yerleroo hesitated, his mouth worked and then he smiled. "Where the winds meet, " he said.

  Rackhir declared angrily: "That's no answer."

  "Yes it is, " said Lamsar softly behind him. "A fair answer." "Now we shall dance, " Yerleroo said. "First you shall watch our dance and then you shall join in."

  "Dance?" said Rackhir, wishing he had brought a sword, or at least a dagger.

  "Yes—you will like it. Everyone likes it. You will find it will do you good."

  "What if we do not wish to dance?"

  "You must—it is for your own good, be assured."

  "And he——" Rackhir pointed at one of the sullen men. "Does he enjoy it?"

  "It is for his own good."

  Yerleroo clapped his hands and at once the fair-haired people leapt into a frenetic, senseless dance. Some of them sang. The sullen people did not sing. After a little hesitation, they began to prance dully about, their frowning features contrasting with their jerking bodies. Soon the whole village was dancing, whirling, singing a monotonous song.

  Yerleroo flashed by, whirling. "Come, join in now."

  "We had better leave, " Lamsar said with a faint smile. They backed away.

  Yerleroo saw them. "No—you must not leave—you must dance."

  They turned and ran as fast as the old man could go. The dancing villagers changed the direction of their dance and began to whirl menacingly towards them in a horrible semblance of gaiety.

  "There's nothing for it, " Lamsar said and stood his ground, observing them through ironic eyes. "The mountain gods must be invoked. A pity, for sorcery wearies me. Let us hope their magic extends to this plane. Gordar! "

  Words in an unusually harsh language issued from Lamsar's old mouth. The whirling villagers came on.

  Lamsar pointed at them.

  The villagers became suddenly petrified and slowly, disturbingly, their bodies caught in a hundred positions, turned to smooth, black basalt.

  "It was for their own good, " Lamsar smiled grimly.

  "Come, to the place where the winds meet, " and he took Rackhir there quite swiftly.

  At the place where the winds met they found the second gateway, a column of amber-coloured flame, shot through with streaks of green. They entered it and, instantly, were in a world of dark, seething colour. Above them was a sky of murky red in which other colours shifted, agitated, changing. Ahead of them lay a forest, dark, blue, black, heavy, mottled green, the tops of its trees moving like a wild tide. It was a howling land of unnatural phenomena.

  Lamsar pursed his lips. "On this plane Chaos rules, we must get to the next gate swiftly for obviously the Lords of Chaos will seek to stop us."

  "Is it always like this?" Rackhir gasped.

  "It is always boiling midnight—but the rest, it changes with the moods of the Lords. There are no rules at all."

  They pressed on through the bounding, blossoming scenery as it erupted and changed around them. Once they saw a huge winged figure in the sky, smoky yellow, and roughly man-shaped.

  "Vezhan, " Lamsar said, "let's hope he did not see us."

  "Vezhan! " Rackhir whispered the name—for it was to Vezhan that he had once been loyal.

  They crept on, uncertain of their direction or even of their speed in that disturbing land.

  At length, they came to the shores of a peculiar ocean.

  It was a grey, heaving, timeless sea, a mysterious sea which stretched into infinity. There could be no other shores beyond this rolling plain of water. No other lands or rivers or dark, cool woods, no other men or women or ships. It was a sea which led to nowhere. It was complete to itself—a sea.

  Over this timeless ocean hovered a brooding ochre sun which cast moody shadows of black and green across the water, giving the whole scene something of the look of being enclosed in a vast cavern, for the sky above was gnarled and black with a
ncient clouds. And all the while the doom-carried crash of breakers, the lonely, fated monotony of the ever-rearing white-topped waves; the sound which portended neither death nor life nor war nor peace—simply existence and shifting inharmony. They could go no further.

  "This has the air of our death about it, " Rackhir said shivering.

  The sea roared and tumbled, the sound of it increasing to a fury, daring them to go on towards it, welcoming them with wild temptation—offering them nothing but achievement—the achievement of death.

  Lamsar said: "It is not my fate wholly to perish." But then they were running back towards the forest, feeling that the strange sea was pouring up the beach towards them. They looked back and saw that it had gone no further, that the breakers were less wild, the sea more calm. Lamsar was little way behind Rackhir.

  The Red Archer gripped his hand and hauled him towards him as if he had rescued the old man from a whirlpool. They remained there, mesmerised, for a long time, while the sea called to them and the wind was a cold caress on their flesh.

  In the bleak brightness of the alien shore, under a sun which gave no heat, their bodies shone like stars in the night and they turned towards the forest, quietly.

  "Are we trapped, then, in this Realm of Chaos?"

  Rackhir said at length. "If we meet someone, they will offer us harm—how can we ask our question?"

  Then there emerged from the huge forest a great figure, naked and gnarled like the trunk of a tree, green as lime, but the face was jovial.

  "Greetings, unhappy renegades, " it said.

  "Where is the next gate?" said Lamsar quickly.

  "You almost entered it, but turned away, " laughed the giant. "That sea does not exist—it is there to stop travellers from passing through the gate."

  "It exists here, in the Realm of Chaos, " Rackhir said thickly.

  "You could say so—but what exists in Chaos save the disorders of the minds of gods gone mad?"

  Rackhir had strung his bone bow and fitted an arrow to the string, but he did it in the knowledge of his own hopelessness.