Free Revenge of the Rose by Michael Moorcock Page A

have no
money, we will take kind. Perhaps to be sure one of those books, if you like, Master Wheldrake, for a horse.”
                 “A
book for a horse, sir! Well, sir!”
                 “Two
horses? I regret I have no notion of the market value. Book-reading is not a
great habit among us. Perhaps we should feel ashamed, but we prefer the passive
pleasures of the evening arena.”
                 “As
well as the horses, perhaps a few days’ provisions?” suggested Elric.
                 “If
that seems fair to you, sir.”
                 “My
books,” pronounced Wheldrake through gritted teeth, his nose seeming more
pointed than ever, “are my—my self ,
sir. They are my identity. I am their protector. Besides, though through the
oddity of some telepathy we all enjoy, we can understand language, we cannot read it. Did you know that, sir? The ability does not extend to that. Logical, in
one sense, I suppose. No, sir, I will not part with a page!”
                 But
when Elric had pointed out that Wheldrake had already explained that one of the
volumes was in a language even he did not know and suggested that their lives
might depend upon acquiring horses and throwing in with the Rose, who already
had her horse, Wheldrake at last consented to part with the Omar Khayyam he had hoped one day to
read.
                 So
Elric, Wheldrake and the Rose all three rode back down the white road beside
the river, back to where they had joined the trail on the previous day, but now
they remained on the path, letting it carry them slowly and sinuously
southward, following the lazy flow of the river. And Wheldrake sang his Song of ’Rabia to an entranced Rose,
while Elric rode some distance ahead, wondering if he had entered a dream and
fearing he would never find his father’s soul.
                 They
had reached a part of the river road Elric did not remember passing over and he
was remarking to himself that this had been close to where the dragon had
headed due south, away from the water’s winding course, when his sensitive ears
caught a distant noise he could not identify. He mentioned it to the others but
neither could hear it. Only after another half-hour had passed did the Rose cup
her hand to her ear and frown. “A kind of rushing. A sort of roar.”
                 “I
hear it now,” said Wheldrake, rather obviously piqued that he, the poet, should
be the least well-tuned. “I did not know you meant that rushing, roaring kind
of noise. I had understood it to be a feature of the water.” And then he had
the grace to blush, shrug and take an interest in something at the end of his
beaklike nose.
                 It
was another two hours before they saw that the water was now gushing and
leaping with enormous force, through rocks which even the most skilled
navigator could not have negotiated, and sending up such a whistling and
shouting and yelling it might have been a live thing, voicing its furious
discontent. The roadway was slippery with spray and they could scarcely make
themselves heard above the noise, could scarcely see more than a few paces in
front of them, could smell only the angry water. And then the road had dropped
away from the river and entered a hollow which made the noise suddenly distant.
                 The
rocks around them still ran with water sprayed from above, but the near-silence
was almost physically welcome to them and they breathed deep sighs of pleasure.
Then Wheldrake rode a little ahead and came back to report that the road curved
off, along what appeared to be a cliff. Perhaps they had reached the ocean.
                 They
had left the hollow and were on the open road again where coarse grass
stretched to an horizon which still roared, still sent up clouds of spray, like
a silver wall. Now the road led them to the edge of a cliff and a chasm so deep
the bottom