Read Online The Dragon in the Sword by Michael Moorcock - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Moorcock
Ads: Link
is not to the advantage, at present, of the
Frowning Shield…”
“Now do you understand,” said Bellanda with a small smile, “why Armiad cultivates you so? We heard he fawns upon you, Prince Flamadin.”
“I must admit it is not the most agreeable experience I have ever had. Why does he do it, when he does not feel obliged to be civil to his own people?”
“He believes us weaker than himself. You are stronger, as he understands such things. But the real reason for his attempts to win your approval are to do with the fact, I’ll swear, that he hopes to impress the other Baron Captains at the Massing. If he has the famous Prince Flamadin of the Valadek at his side when we sail in to the Massing Ground, he believes they must surely accept him as one of themselves.”
Von Bek was highly amused. He exploded with laughter. “And that’s the only reason?”
“The chief reason at any rate,” she said, joining in his amusement. “He’s a simple fellow, isn’t he?”
“The simpler they are the more dangerous they can be,” I said. “I wish we could be of help to you, Bellanda, in relieving you of his tyranny.”
“We can only hope some accident will befall him before long,” she said. She spoke openly. Plainly, they did not plan to perpetuate their hull’s history of murder.
I was grateful to Bellanda for illuminating me on the matter. I decided to seek her help a little further. “I gathered from Armiad last night,” I said, “that I am something of a folk hero amongst at least some of your people. He spoke of adventures which are not wholly familiar to me. Do you know what that means?”
She laughed again. “You’re modest, Prince Flamadin. Or you feign modesty with great charm and skill. Surely you must know that in the Maaschanheem, as well as, I think, in other Realms of the Wheel, your adventures are told by every market tale-spinner. There are books sold throughout the Maaschanheem, not all originating from our book-manufacturing hulls, which purport to describe how you defeated this ogre or rescued that maiden. You cannot say you’ve never seen them!”
“Here,” said one of the younger men, pushing forward and brandishing a brightly coloured book which reminded me a little of our old Victorian penny dreadfuls or dime novels. “See! I was going to ask you if you’d sign it, sir.”
Von Bek said softly, “You told me you were an elected hero in your many incarnations, Herr Daker, but until now I had no proof!”
To my extreme embarrassment he took the book from the boy’s hand and inspected it even as he passed it to me. Here was a rough likeness of myself, riding some sort of lizard creature, sword raised high as I did battle with what looked like a cross between the water hounds and large baboons. I had a frightened young woman on the saddle behind me and across the top of this picture, just as in a more familiar pulp magazine, was a title:
PRINCE FLAMADIN, CHAMPION OF THE SIX WORLDS.
Inside, written in lurid prose, was a story, evidently largely fictitious, describing my courageous exploits, my noble sentiments, my extraordinary good looks and so on. I was both baffled and discommoded, yet found myself signing the name—Flamadin—with a flourish before handing the book back. The gesture had been automatic. Perhaps I was, after all, this character. Certainly my responses were familiar ones, just as I could speak the language and read it. I sighed. In all my experience I had never known anything quite so ordinary and so strange at the same time. I was some kind of hero in this world—but a hero whose exploits were thoroughly fictionalised, like those of Jesse James, Buffalo Bill or, to a lesser degree, some of the popular sports and music stars of the twentieth century!
Von Bek hit the nail on the head. “I had no idea I had been befriended by someone as famous as Old Shatterhand or Sherlock Holmes,” he said.
“Is it all true?” the boy wished to know. “It’s hard to
Frowning Shield…”
“Now do you understand,” said Bellanda with a small smile, “why Armiad cultivates you so? We heard he fawns upon you, Prince Flamadin.”
“I must admit it is not the most agreeable experience I have ever had. Why does he do it, when he does not feel obliged to be civil to his own people?”
“He believes us weaker than himself. You are stronger, as he understands such things. But the real reason for his attempts to win your approval are to do with the fact, I’ll swear, that he hopes to impress the other Baron Captains at the Massing. If he has the famous Prince Flamadin of the Valadek at his side when we sail in to the Massing Ground, he believes they must surely accept him as one of themselves.”
Von Bek was highly amused. He exploded with laughter. “And that’s the only reason?”
“The chief reason at any rate,” she said, joining in his amusement. “He’s a simple fellow, isn’t he?”
“The simpler they are the more dangerous they can be,” I said. “I wish we could be of help to you, Bellanda, in relieving you of his tyranny.”
“We can only hope some accident will befall him before long,” she said. She spoke openly. Plainly, they did not plan to perpetuate their hull’s history of murder.
I was grateful to Bellanda for illuminating me on the matter. I decided to seek her help a little further. “I gathered from Armiad last night,” I said, “that I am something of a folk hero amongst at least some of your people. He spoke of adventures which are not wholly familiar to me. Do you know what that means?”
She laughed again. “You’re modest, Prince Flamadin. Or you feign modesty with great charm and skill. Surely you must know that in the Maaschanheem, as well as, I think, in other Realms of the Wheel, your adventures are told by every market tale-spinner. There are books sold throughout the Maaschanheem, not all originating from our book-manufacturing hulls, which purport to describe how you defeated this ogre or rescued that maiden. You cannot say you’ve never seen them!”
“Here,” said one of the younger men, pushing forward and brandishing a brightly coloured book which reminded me a little of our old Victorian penny dreadfuls or dime novels. “See! I was going to ask you if you’d sign it, sir.”
Von Bek said softly, “You told me you were an elected hero in your many incarnations, Herr Daker, but until now I had no proof!”
To my extreme embarrassment he took the book from the boy’s hand and inspected it even as he passed it to me. Here was a rough likeness of myself, riding some sort of lizard creature, sword raised high as I did battle with what looked like a cross between the water hounds and large baboons. I had a frightened young woman on the saddle behind me and across the top of this picture, just as in a more familiar pulp magazine, was a title:
PRINCE FLAMADIN, CHAMPION OF THE SIX WORLDS.
Inside, written in lurid prose, was a story, evidently largely fictitious, describing my courageous exploits, my noble sentiments, my extraordinary good looks and so on. I was both baffled and discommoded, yet found myself signing the name—Flamadin—with a flourish before handing the book back. The gesture had been automatic. Perhaps I was, after all, this character. Certainly my responses were familiar ones, just as I could speak the language and read it. I sighed. In all my experience I had never known anything quite so ordinary and so strange at the same time. I was some kind of hero in this world—but a hero whose exploits were thoroughly fictionalised, like those of Jesse James, Buffalo Bill or, to a lesser degree, some of the popular sports and music stars of the twentieth century!
Von Bek hit the nail on the head. “I had no idea I had been befriended by someone as famous as Old Shatterhand or Sherlock Holmes,” he said.
“Is it all true?” the boy wished to know. “It’s hard to
Similar Books
