Revenge of the Rose by Michael Moorcock Page B

source of creativity, I think. And one thing, sir,
that Putney promises is that you shall be free from Crisis.”
                 Listening
politely, as one does when a friend discusses the more abstruse or sticky
points of their particular creed, Elric let the poet’s words act as a lullaby
to his still-tortured senses. It was clear that the venom’s effect did not
lessen with increasing use. But now, he knew, if their gypsy guides proved
treacherous he would be able to kill them without much effort. He was a little
contemptuous of local opinion. These ruffians might have terrorized the farmers
of these parts, but they were clearly no match for trained fighters. And he
knew he could rely on the Rose in any engagement, though Wheldrake would be
next to useless. There was an air of awkwardness about him which made it clear
that his use of a sword was more likely to confuse than threaten any opponent.
                 From
time to time he shared glances with his friends, but it was clear neither had
any idea of an alternative. Since the ones they sought had searched for the
Gypsy Nation there could be no reason for not at least discovering what exactly
the Gypsy Nation was.
                 Elric
watched as the Rose, to release some of her anxiety no doubt, suddenly let her
horse have free rein and went galloping along the narrow track beside the chasm
while stones and tufts of clay and turf went tumbling down into the darkness
and the roar of the unseen river. Then, one by one, the gypsies followed,
galloping their horses with daredevil skill in the Rose’s wake, yelling and
hallooing, jumping up in their saddles, leaping and diving, as if all this were
completely natural to them, and now Elric laughed joyously to see their joy, and Wheldrake clapped and
hooted like a boy at the circus. And then they had come to the great wall of
garbage, higher than anything Elric had seen earlier, where more gypsies waited
at a passage they had made through the waste and they greeted their fellows
with all manner of heartiness, while Elric, Wheldrake and the Rose were
subjected to the same off-hand contempt with which they treated all
non-gypsies.
                 “They
wish to join our free-roaming band,” said the tall man in red and white. “As I
told them, we never reject a recruit.” And he guffawed as he accepted a
somewhat overripe peach from one of the other gypsies’ bags. “There’s precious
little to forage as usual. It’s always thus at the end of the season, and at
the beginning.” He cocked his head suddenly. “But the season comes. Soon. We
shall go to meet it.”
                 Elric
himself thought he felt the ground shivering slightly and heard something like
a distant piping, a far-off drum, a drone. Was their god slithering along his
causeway from one lair to the next? Were he and his companions to be sacrifices
for that god? Was that what the gypsies found amusing?
                 “Which
season?” asked the Rose, almost urgently, her long fingers combing at her
curls.
                 “The
Season of our Passing. Indeed, the Seasons of our Passing,” said a woman spitting plum stones to the ashy filth of the
ground. Then she had mounted her horse and was leading them through the
passage, out onto the fleshy hardness of the great causeway, which trembled and
shook as if from a distant earthquake and now, in the far distance, from the
east, Elric looked down the mile-wide road and he saw movement, heard more
noise, and he realized something was coming towards them even as they
approached.
                 “Great
Scott!” cried Wheldrake, lifting his hat in a gesture of amazement. “What can
it be?”
                 It
was a kind of darkness, a flickering of heavy shadows, of the occasional spark
of light, of a constant and increasing shaking, which made the banks of garbage
bounce and scatter and the carrion creatures rise