Read more
Informationen zum Autor Michael John Moorcock (born 1939) is a prolific British writer primarily of science fiction and science fantasy who has also published a number of literary novels. His most popular works by far have been the Elric novels. As editor of the controversial British science fiction magazine New Worlds ! Moorcock fostered the development of the New Wave in the UK and indirectly in the U.S. He won the Nebula Award for his novella Behold the Man ! which tells the story of a time traveler who takes on the role of Christ. He has also won the World Fantasy Award! the British Fantasy Award! and many others! and in 2008 was named a Grand Master by the Science Fiction Writers of America. Klappentext The second of six illustrated omnibus volumes brings back into print the classic fantasy tales of Elric! Last Emperor of Melnibon. Chapter One BETWEEN WAKEFULNESS AND sleeping, we have most of us had the illusion of hearing voices, scraps of conversation, phrases spoken in unfamiliar tones. Sometimes we attempt to attune our minds so that we can hear more, but we are rarely successful. Between wakefulness and sleeping, I began, every night, to hear voices . . . Had I hung, for an eternity in limbo? Was I alive–dead? Was there a memory of a world which lay in the far past or the distant future? Of another world which seemed closer? And the names? Was I John Daker or Erekos‘? Was I either of these? Many other names, Shaleen, Artos, Brian, Umpata, Roland, Ilanth, Ulysses, Alric, ?ed away down the ghostly rivers of my memory. I hung in darkness, bodiless. A man spoke. Where was he? I tried to look but had no eyes to see. *** “Erekosë the Champion, where are you?” Another voice, then: “Father . . . it is only a legend . . .” “No, Iolinda. I feel he is listening. Erekosë . . .” I tried to answer, but had no voice. Swirling half-dreams of a house in a great city of miracles, a swollen, grimy city of miracles, crammed with dull-coloured machines, many of which bore human passengers. Of buildings, beautiful beneath their coatings of dust and of other, brighter buildings not so beautiful, with austere lines and many glass windows. Of a troop of riders galloping over an undulating countryside, ?amboyant in armour of lacquered gold, coloured pennants draped around their blood-encrusted lances. Their faces were heavy with weariness. Of more faces, many faces, some of which I half recognized, others which were unfamiliar, people clad in strange clothes. A picture of a white haired, middle-aged man who had a tall, spiked crown upon his head. His mouth moved, he was speaking . . . “Erekosë, it is I, King Rigenos, Defender of Humanity. You are needed again, Erekosë. The Hounds of Evil rule a third of the world and humankind is weary of the war against them. Come to us, Erekosë and lead us to victory. From the Plains of Melting Ice to the Mountains of Sorrow they have set up their corrupt standard and I fear they will advance yet further into our territories.” The woman’s voice: “Father, this is only an empty tomb. Not even the mummy of Erekosë remains–it became drifting dust long ago. Let us leave and return to Necranal to marshal the living peers.” I felt like a fainting man who strives to ?ght against dizzy oblivion but, however much he tries, cannot take control of his own brain. Again I tried to answer, but could not. It was as if I wavered backwards through time, while every atom of me wanted to go forwards. I had the sensation of vast size as if I were made of stone with eyelids of granite, measuring miles across–eyelids which I could not open. And then I was tiny–the most minute grain in the universe, and yet I felt I belonged to the whole far more than the stone giant. Memories came and went. The whole panorama of the twentieth century, its beauties and its bitterness...
