The Runestaff Book 2

Sorcerer's Amulet

By Michael Moorcock

CONTENTS

BOOK ONE

1Soryandum8

2Huillam d'Averc14

3The Wraith-folk25

4The Mechanical Beast34

5The Machine41

6Mad God's Ship51

7The Ring on the Finger64

8Mad God's Man76

BOOK TWO

1The Waiting Warrior86

2The Mad God's Castle93

3Hawkmoon's Dilemma102

4The Power of the Amulet113

5The Slaughter in the Hall119

6The Mad God's Beasts124

7Encounter in a Tavern131

8The Dark Empire Camp146

9The Journey South157

10The Fall of the Kamarg161

11Return of the Warrior174

12Escape to Limbo186

BOOK ONE

WE HAVE LEARNED now how Dorian Hawkmoon, last

Duke of Koln, threw off the power of the Black

Jewel and saved the city of Hamadan from conquest

by the Dark Empire of Granbretan. His arch-enemy,

Baron Meliadus, defeated, Hawkmoon set off west-

ward again, bound for the besieged Kamarg, where

his betrothed, Yisselda, Count Brass's daughter,

awaited him. With his boon companion Oladahn, beast-

man of the Bulgar Mountains, Hawkmoon rode from

Persia toward the Cyprian Sea and the port of Tara-

bulus, where they hoped to find a ship brave enough

to bear them back to the Kamarg. But in the Syranian

Desert they lost their way and came close to dying

of thirst and exhaustion before they saw the peace-

ful ruins of Soryandum lying at the foot of a range

of green hills on which wild sheep grazed. .. .

Meanwhile, in Europe, the Dark Empire extended

its terrible rule, while elsewhere the Runestaff pulsed,

exerting its influence over thousands of miles to in-

volve the destinies of some several human souls of

disparate character and ambitions...

The High History of the Runestaff

Chapter One

SORYANDUM

THE CITY WAS old; begrimed by time. A place of

wind-worn stones and tumbler masonry, its towers

tilting and its walls crumbling. Wild sheep cropped

the grass that grew between cracked paving stones,

bright-plumed birds nested among columns of faded

mosaic. The city had once been splendid and terrible;

now it was beautiful and tranquil. The two travelers

came to it in the mellow haze of morning, when a

melancholy wind blew through the silence of the

ancient streets. The hooves of the horses were hushed

as the travelers led them between towers that were

green with age, passed by ruins bright with blossoms

of orange, ocher and purple. And this was Soryandum,

deserted by its folk.

The men and their horses were turned all one

color by the dust that caked them, making them re-

semble statues that had come to life. They moved

slowly, looking wonderingly about them at the beauty

of the dead city.

The first man was tall and lean, and although weary

he moved with the graceful stride of the trained war-

rior. His long fair hair had been bleached near white

by the sun, and his pale blue eyes had a hint of mad-

ness in them. But the thing most remarkable about

his appearance was the dull black jewel sunk into his

forehead just above and between the eyes, a stigmata

he owed to the perverted miracle workings of the

sorcerer-scientists of Granbretan. His name was Dor-

ian Hawkmoon, Duke von Koln, driven from his

hereditary lands by the conquests of the Dark Empire,

which schemed to rule the world. Dorian Hawkmoon,

who had sworn vengeance against the most powerful

nation on his war-tormented planet.

The creature who followed Hawkmoon bore a

large bone bow and a quiver of arrows on his back.

He was clad only in a pair of britches and boots of

soft, floppy leather, but the whole of his body, in-

cluding his face, was covered in red, wiry hair. His

head came to just below Hawkmoon's shoulder. This

was Oladahn, cross-bred offspring of a sorcerer and

a mountain giantess from the Bulgar Mountains.

Oladahn patted sand from his fur and looked per-

plexed. "Never have I seen a city so fair. Why is it

deserted? Who could leave such a place?"

Hawkmoon, as was his habit when puzzled, rubbed

at the dull black jewel in his forehead. "Perhaps

diseasewho knows? Let's hope that if it was disease,

none of it lingers on. I'll speculate later, but not now.

I'm sure I hear water somewhereand that' my first re-

quirement. Food's my second, sleep's my thirdand

thought, friend Oladahn, a very distant fourth. . . ."

In one of the city's plazas they found a wall of blue-

gray rock that had been carved with flowing figures.

From the eyes of one stone maiden fell pure spring

water that splashed into a hollow fashioned below.

Hawkmoon stooped and drank, wiping wet hands

over his dusty face. He stepped back for Oladahn to

drink, then led the horses forward to slake their thirst.

Hawkmoon reached into one of his saddlebags and

took out the cracked and crumpled map that had been

given him in Hamadan. His finger crept across the

map until it came to rest on the word "Soryandum."

He smiled with relief. "We are not too far off our

original route," he said. "Beyond these hills the Eu-

phrates flows and Tarabulas lies beyond it by about

a week's journey. We'll rest here for today and to-

night, then continue on our way. Refreshed, we will

travel more rapidly."

Oladahn grinned. "Aye, and you'd explore the city

before we leave, I fancy." He splashed water on his

fur, then bent to pick up his bow and quiver. "Now

to attend to your second requirementfood. I'll not

be gone long. I saw a wild ram in the hills. Tonight

we'll dine off roast mutton." He remounted his horse

and was away, riding for the broken gates of the city

while Hawkmoon stripped off his clothes and plunged

his hands into the cool spring water, gasping with a

sense of utter luxury as he poured the water over his

head and body. Then he took fresh clothing from the

saddlebag, pulling on a silk shirt given him by Queen

Frawbra of Hamadan and a pair of blue cotton brit-

ches with flaring bottoms. Glad to be out of the heav-

ier leather and iron he had worn for protection's sake

while crossing the desert in case any of the Dark

Empire's men were following them, Hawkmoon

donned a pair of sandals to complete his outfit. His

only concession to his earlier fears was the sword he

buckled about him.

It was scarcely possible that he could have been

followed here, and besides, the city was so peaceful

that he could not believe any kind of danger threat-

ened.

Hawkmoon went to his horse and unsaddled it,

then crossed to the shade of a ruined tower to lie with

his back against it and await Oladahn and the mutton.

Noon came and went, and Hawkmoon began to

wonder what had become of his friend. He dozed for

another hour before real trepidation began to stir in

him and he rose to resaddle his horse.

It was highly unlikely, Hawkmoon knew, that an

archer as skilled as Oladahn would take so long in

pursuit of one wild sheep. Yet there seemed to be no

possible danger here. Perhaps Oladahn had grown

weary and decided to sleep for an hour or two before

hauling the carcass back. Even if that were all that

was delaying him, Hawkmoon decided, he might need

assistance.

He mounted his horse and rode through the streets

to the crumbling outer wall of the city and to the hills

beyond. The horse seemed to recover much of its

former energy as its hooves touched grass, and Hawk-

moon had to shorten the rein, riding into the hills at

a light canter.

Ahead was a herd of wild sheep led by a large, wise

looking ram, perhaps the one Oladahn had mentioned,

but there was no sign at all of the little beast-man.

"Oladahn!" Hawkmoon yelled, peering about him.

"Oladahn!" But only muffled echoes answered him.

Hawkmoon frowned, then urged his horse into a

gallop, riding up a hill taller than the rest in the hope

that from this vantage point he would be able to see

his friend. Wild sheep scattered before him as the

horse raced over the springy grass. He reached the top

of the hill and shielded his eyes from the glare of the

sun. He stared in every direction, but there was no

sign of Oladahn.

For some moments he continued to look around

him, hoping to see some trace of his friend; then, as

he gazed toward the city, he saw a movement near the

plaza of the spring. Had his eyes tricked him, or had

he seen a man entering the shadows of the streets that

led off the eastern side of the plaza? Could Oladahn

have returned by another route? If so, why hadn't he

answered Hawkmoon's call?

Hawkmoon had a nagging sense of terror in the

back of his mind now, but he still could not believe

that the city itself offered any menace.

He spurred his horse back down the hillside and

leaped it over a section of ruined wall.

Muffled by the dust, the horse's hooves thudded

through the streets as Hawkmoon headed toward the

plaza, crying Oladahn's name. But again he was an-

swered only by echoes. In the plaza there was no sign

of the little mountain man.

Hawkmoon frowned, almost certain now that he

and Oladahn had not, after all, been alone in the city.

Yet there was no sign of inhabitants.

He turned his horse toward the streets. As he did

so his ears caught a faint sound from above. He

looked upward, his eyes searching the sky, certain that

he recognized the sound. At last he saw ita distant

black shape in the air overhead. Then sunlight flashed

on metal, and the sound became distinct, a clanking

and whirring of giant bronze wings. Hawkmoon's

heart sank.

The thing descending from the sky was unmistak-

ably an ornate ornithopter, wrought in the shape of a

gigantic condor, enameled in blue, scarlet, and green.

No other nation on Earth possessed such vessels. It

was a flying machine of the Dark Empire of Gran-

bretan.

Now Oladahn's disappearance was fully explained.

The warriors of the Dark Empire were present in

Soryandum. It was more than likely, too, that they

had recognized Oladahn and knew that Hawkmoon

could not be far away. And Hawkmoon was the Dark

Empire's most hated opponent.

Chapter Two

HUILLAM d'AVERC

HAWKMOON MADE for the shadows of the streets, hop-

ing that he had not been seen by the ornithopter.

Could the Granbretanians have followed him all the

way across the dessert? It was unlikely. Yet what else

explained their presence in this remote place? -

Hawkmoon drew his great battle blade from its

scabbard and then dismounted. In his clothes of thin

silk and cotton he felt more than ordinarily vulner-

able as he ran through the streets seeking cover.

Now the ornithopter flew only a few feet above

the tallest towers of Soryandum, almost certainly

searching for Hawkmoon, the man whom the King-

Emperor Huon had sworn must be revenged upon for

his "betrayal" of the Dark Empire. Hawkmoon might

have slain Baron Meliadus at the battle of Hamadan,

but without doubt King Huon had swiftly dispatched

a new emissary upon the task of hunting down the

hated Hawkmoon.

The young Duke of Koln had not expected to jour-

ney without danger, but he had not believed that he

would be found so soon.

He came to a dark building, half in ruins, whose

cool doorway offered shelter. He entered the build-

ing and found himself in a hallway with walls of pale,

carved stone partly overgrown with soft mosses and

blooming lichens. A stairway ran up one side of the

hall, and Hawkmoon, blade in hand, climbed the wind-

ing, moss-carpeted steps for several flights until he

found himself in a small room into which sunlight

streamed through a gap in the wall where the stones

had fallen away. Flattening himself against the wall

and peering around the broken section, Hawkmoon

saw a large part of the city, saw the ornithopter

wheeling and dipping as its vulture-masked pilot

searched the streets.

There was a tower of faded green granite not too

distant. It stood roughly in the center of Soryandum,

dominating the city. The ornithopter circled this for

some time, and at first Hawkmoon guessed that the

pilot believed him to be hidden there, but then the

flying machine settled on the flat, battlement-sur-

rounded roof of the tower. From somewhere below

other figures emerged to join the pilot.

These men were evidently of Granbretan also.

They were all clad in heavy armor and cloaks, with

huge metal masks covering their heads, in spite of the

heat. Such was the twisted nature of Dark Empire

men that they could not rid themselves of their masks

whatever the circumstances. They seemed to have a

deeprooted psychological reliance on them.

The masks were of rust red and murky yellow,

fashioned to resemble rampant wild boars, with fierce,

jeweled eyes that blazed in the sunlight and great

ivory tusks curling from the flaring snouts.

These, then, were men of the Order of the Boar, in-

famous in Europe for its savagery. There were six of

them standing by their leader, a tall, slender man

whose mask was of gold and bronze and much more

delicately wroughtalmost to the point of caricatur-

ing the mask of the Order. The man leaned on the

arms of two of his companionsone squat and bulky,

the other virtually a giant, with naked arms and legs

of almost inhuman hairiness. Was the leader ill or

wounded? wondered Hawkmoon. There seemed to

be something almost artificial about the way he leaned

on his mensomething theatrical. Hawkmoon thought

then that he knew who the Boar leader was. It was

almost certainly the renegade Frenchman Huillam

d'Averc, once a brilliant painter and architect, who

had joined the cause of Granbretan long before they

has conquered France. An enigma, D'Averc, but a

dangerous man for all that he affected illness.

Now the Boar leader spoke to the vulture-masked

pilot, who shook his head. Evidently he had not seen

Hawkmoon, but he pointed toward the spot where

Hawkmoon had abandoned his horse. D'Avercif it

was D'Averclanguidly signed to one of his men, who

disappeared below, to reemerge almost at once with

a struggling, snarling Oladahn.

Relieved, Hawkmoon watched as two of the boar-

masked warriors dragged Oladahn close to the battle-

ments. At least his friend was alive.

Then the Boar leader signed again, and the vulture

pilot leaned into the cockpit of his flying machine

and withdrew a bell-shaped megaphone, which he

handed to the giant on whose arm the leader still

rested. The giant placed this close to the snout of his

master's mask.

Suddenly the quiet air of the city was filled with

the bored, world-weary voice of the Boar leader.

"Duke von Koln, we know that you are present in

this city, for we have captured your servant. In an

hour the sun will set. If you have not delivered your-

self to us by that time, we must begin to kill the little

fellow...."

Now Hawkmoon knew for certain that it was

D'Averc. No other man alive could both look and

sound like that. Hawkmoon saw the giant hand the

megaphone back to the pilot and then, with the help

of his squat companion, help his master to the partially

ruined battlement so that D'Averc could lean against

it and look down into the streets.

Hawkmoon controlled his fury and studied the

distance between his building and the tower. By jump-

ing through the gap in the wall he could reach a series

of flat roofs that would take him close to a pile of

fallen masonry heaped against one wall of the tower.

From there he saw that he could easily climb to the

battlements. But he would be seen as soon as he left

his cover. It would be possible to take that route only

at nightand by nightfall they would have begun

torturing Oladahn.

Perplexed, Hawkmoon fingered the black jewel,

sign of his former slavery to Granbretan. He knew

that if he gave himself up he would be killed instantly

or be taken back to Granbretan and there killed with

terrible slowness for the pleasure of the perverted

lords of the Dark Empire. He thought of Yisselda, to

whom he had sworn to return, of Count Brass, whom

he had sworn to aid in the struggle against Granbretan

and he thought of Oladahn, with whom he had

sworn friendship after the little beast-man had saved

his life.

Could he sacrifice his friend? Could he justify such

an action, even if logic told him that his own life was

of greater worth in the fight against the Dark Empire?

Hawkmoon knew that logic was of no use here. But

he knew, too, that his sacrifice might be useless, for

there was no guarantee that the Boar leader would let

Oladahn go once Hawkmoon had delivered himself

up.

Hawkmoon bit his lips, gripping his sword tightly;

then he came to a decision, squeezed his body through

the gap in the wall, clung to the stonework with one

hand, and waved his bright blade at the tower.

D'Averc looked up slowly.

"You must release Oladahn before I come to you,"

Hawkmoon called. "For I know that all men of Gran-

bretan are liars. You have my word, however, that if

you release Oladahn I will deliver myself into your

hands."

"Liars we may be," came the languid voice, barely

audible, "but we are not fools. How may I trust your

word?"

"I am a Duke of Koln," said Hawkmoon simply.

"We do not lie."

A light, ironic laugh came from within the boar

mask. "You may be naive, Duke of Koln, but Sir

Huillam d'Averc is not. However, may I suggest a

compromise?"

"What is that?" Hawkmoon asked warily.

"I would suggest you come halfway toward us so

that you are well within the range of our ornithopter's

flame-lance, and then I shall release your servant."

D'Averc coughed ostentatiously and leaned heavily

on the battlement. "What say you to that?"

"Hardly a compromise," called Hawkmoon. "For

then you could kill us both with little effort or danger

to yourself."

"My dear duke, the King-Emperor would much

prefer you alive. Surely you know that? My own

interest is at stake. Killing you now would only earn

me a baronetcy at mostdelivering you alive for the

King-Emperor's pleasure would almost certainly gain

me a princedom. Have you not heard of me, Duke

Dorian? I am the ambitious Huillam d'Averc."

D'Averc's argument was convincing, but Hawk-

moon could not forget the Frenchman's reputation

for deviousness. Although it was true that he was

worth more to D'Averc alive, the renegade might well

decide it expedient not to risk his gains and might

therefore kill Hawkmoon as soon as he came into

Certain range of the flame-lance.

Hawkmoon deliberated for a moment, then sighed.

"I will do as you suggest, Sir Huillam." He poised

himself to leap across the narrow street separating

him from the rooftops below.

Then Oladahn cried, "No, Duke Dorian! Let them

kill me! My life is worthless!"

Hawkmoon acted as if he had not heard his friend

and sprang out and down, to land on the balls of his

feet on the roof. The old masonry shuddered at the

impact, and for a moment Hawkmoon thought he

would fall as the roof threatened to crack. But it held,

and he began to walk gingerly toward the tower.

Again Oladahn called out and began to struggle in

the hands of his captors.

Hawkmoon ignored him, walking steadily on,

sword still in one hand but held loosely, virtually

forgotten.

Now Oladahn broke free altogether and darted

across the tower, pursued by two cursing warriors.

Hawkmoon saw him dash to the far edge, pause for

a moment, and then fling himself over the parapet.

For a moment Hawkmoon stood frozen in horror,

hardly understanding the nature of his friend's sacri-

fice.

Then he tightened his grip on his sword and raised

his head to glare at D'Averc and his men. Bending

low, he made for the edge of the roof as the flame

cannon began to turn in his direction. There was a

great whoosh of heat over his head as they sought his

range; then he had swung himself over the edge and

hung by his hands, peering down into the street far

below.

There was a series of stone carvings quite close to

him on his left. He inched along until he could grasp

the nearest. They ran down the side of the house at

an angle, almost to street level. But the stone was

plainly rotten. Would the carvings support his

weight?

Hawkmoon did not pause. He swung himself down

on the first carving. It began to creak and crumble,

like a bad tooth. Quickly Hawkmoon dropped to the

next and then the next, bits of stone clattering down

the sides of the building, to crash in the distant street.

Then at last Hawkmoon was able to leap to the

cobbles and land easily in the soft dust that covered

them. Now he began to run, not away from the tower

but toward it. He had nothing in his mind now but

vengeance on D'Averc for driving Oladahn to suicide.

He found the entrance to the tower and entered in

time to hear the clatter of metal-shod feet as D'Averc

and his warriors descended. He chose a spot on the

staircase (which was enclosed) where he would be

able to take the Granbretanians one at a time. D'Averc

was the first to appear, stopping suddenly as he saw

the glowering Hawkmoon, then reaching with gaunt-

leted hand for his long blade.

"You were foolish not to take the chance of escape

your friend's silly sacrifice gave you," said the boar-

masked mercenary contemptuously. "Now, like it or

not, I suppose we shall have to kill you...." He began

to cough, doubling up in apparent agony, leaning

weakly against the wall. He signed limply to the squat

man behind himone of those Hawkmoon had seen

helping D'Averc across the battlements. "Oh, my

dear Duke Dorian, I must apologize ... my infirmity

is liable to seize me at the most inconvenient moments.

Ecardowould you...?"'

The powerfully built Ecardo sprang forward

grunting and pulling a short-hafted battle-axe from his

belt. He tugged out his sword with his free hand and

chuckled with pleasure. "Thanks, master. Now let's

see how the no-mask prances." He moved like a cat

to the attack.

Hawkmoon poised himself, ready to meet Ecardo's

first blow.

Then the man sprang with a great feral howl, the

battle-ax splashing the air to clang against Hawk-

moon's blade. Then Ecardo's short sword ripped up-

ward, and Hawkmoon, already weak from exposure

and hunger, barely managed to turn his body in time.

Even so, the sword slashed through the cotton of his

britches and he felt its cold edge against his flesh.

Hawkmoon's own blade slid from beneath the ax

and crashed down on Ecardo's grinning boar-mask,

wrenching one tusk loose and badly denting the snout.

Ecardo cursed, his sword stabbing again, but Hawk-

moon leaned against the man's sword arm, trapping it

beneath his body and the wall. Then he let go of his

own sword so that it hung by its wrist thong, grasped

Ecardo's arm, and tried to twist the ax from his hand.

Ecardo's armored knee drove into Hawkmoon's

groin, but Hawkmoon held his position in spite of the

pain, tugged Ecardo down the stairs, pushed, and let

him fall to the floor under his own momentum.

Ecardo hit the paving stones with a thud that shook

the whole tower. He did not move.

Hawkmoon looked up at D'Averc. "Well, sir, are

you recovered?"

D'Averc pushed back his ornate mask, to reveal the

pale face and pale eyes of an invalid. His mouth

twisted in a little smile. "I will do my best," he said.

And when he advanced it was swiftly, with the move-

ments of a man more than ordinarily fit.

This time Hawkmoon took the initiative, darting a

thrust at his enemy that almost took him by surprise

but that he parried with amazing speed. His languid

tone belied his reflexes.

Hawkmoon realized that D'Averc was quite as

dangerous, in his own way, as the powerful Ecardo.

He realized, too, that if Ecardo were merely stunned,

he himself might soon be trapped between two op-

ponents.

The swordplay was so swift that the two blades

seemed a single blur of metal as both men held their

ground. With his great mask flung back, D'Averc

was smiling, with an expression of quiet pleasure in

his eyes. He looked for all the world like a man en-

joying a musical performance or some other passive

pastime.

Wearied by his journey through the desert, need-

ing food, Hawkmoon knew that he could not long sus-

tain the fight in this way. Desperately he sought an

opening in D'Averc's splendid defense. Once, his op-

ponent stumbled slightly on a broken stair. Hawk-

moon thrust swiftly but was parried and had his fore-

arm nicked into the bargain.

Behind D'Averc the warriors of the Boar waited

eagerly with swords ready to finish Hawkmoon off

once the opportunity was presented to them.

Hawkmoon was tiring rapidly until he was fighting

a purely defensive style, barely managing to turn the

thrusting steel that drove for his eye, his throat, his

heart, or his belly. He took one step backward, then

another.

As he took the second step, he heard a groan behind

him and knew that Ecardo's senses were returning.

Now it would not be long before the boars butchered

him.

Yet he scarcely cared, now that Oladahn was

dead. Hawkmoon's swordplay became wilder, and

D'Averc's smile grew broader as he sensed his victory

coming closer.

Rather than have Ecardo at his back, Hawkmoon

sprang suddenly down the steps without turning

around. His shoulder bumped against another, and he

whirled, prepared to face the brutish Ecardo.

Then his sword almost dropped from his hand in

astonishment.

"Oladahn!"

The little beast-man was in the act of raising a

swordthe boar warrior's own swordover the stir-

ring Ecardo's head.

"AyeI live. But do not ask me how. It's a mystery

to me." And he brought the flat of the blade down on

Ecardo's helmet with a great clang. Ecardo collapsed

again.

There was no more time for talk. Hawkmoon

barely managed to block D'Averc's next thrust. There

was a look of astonishment in D'Averc's eyes too as

he saw the living Oladahn.

Hawkmoon manager to break through the French-

man's guard, piercing his shoulder armor, but again

D'Averc swept the blade aside and resumed the attack.

But now Hawkmoon had lost the advantage of his

position. The savage boar mask grinned at him as

warriors poured down the stairs.

Hawkmoon and Oladahn backed toward the door,

hoping to regain the advantage, but there was little

chance of that. For another ten minutes they held

their own against the overwhelming odds, killing two

Granbretanians, wounding three more. But they were

wearying rapidly. Hawkmoon could barely hold his

sword.

His glazed eyes could hardly see his opponents as

they closed in like brutes for the kill He heard

D'Averc's triumphant 'Take them alive!' and then he

went down beneath a tide of metal.

Chapter Three

THE WRAITH-FOLK

WRAPPED IN CHAINS so that they could barely breathe,

Hawkmoon and Oladahn were borne down innumer-

able flights of stairs into the depths of the great tower,

which seemed to stretch as far belowground as it did

above.

At length the boar warriors reached a chamber that

had evidently been a storeroom but that now served

as an effective dungeon.

There they were flung face down on the coarse

rock. They lay there until a booted foot turned them

over to blink into the light of a guttering torch held

by the squat Ecardo, whose battered mask seemed to

snarl in glee. D'Averc, mask still pushed back to ex-

pose his face, stood between Ecardo and the huge,

hairy warrior Hawkmoon had seen earlier. D'Averc

had a brocade scarf to his lips, and he leaned heavily

on the giant's arm.

D'Averc coughed theatrically and smiled down at

his prisoners. "I fear I must leave you soon, gentlemen.

This subterranean air is not good for me. However,

it should do little harm to two such robust young

fellows as yourselves. You will not have to stay here

more than a day, I assure you. I have sent a request

for a larger ornithopter that will be able to bear the

two of you back to Sicilia, where my main force is

now encamped."

"You have taken Sicilia already?" Hawkmoon

asked tonelessly. "You have conquered the isle?"

"Aye. The Dark Empire wastes little time. I, in

fact"D'Averc coughed with mock modesty into his

scarf"am the hero of Sicilia. It was my leadership

that subjugated the island so swiftly. But that triumph

was no special one, for the Dark Empire has many

capable captains like myself. We have made many

gains in Europe these past few monthsand in the

East, too."

"But the Kamarg still stands," Hawkmoon said.

"That must irritate the King-Emperor."

"Oh, the Kamarg cannot last long besieged," said

D'Averc airily. "We are concentrating our particular

attention on that little province. Why, it may have

fallen already...."

"Not while Count Brass lives," Hawkmoon smiled.

"Just so," D'Averc said. "I heard he was badly

wounded and his lieutenant von Villach slain in a

recent battle."

Hawkmoon could not tell whether D'Averc was

lying. He let no emotion show on his face, but the

news had shocked him. Was the Kamarg ready to fall

and if so, what would become of Yisselda?

"Plainly that news disturbs you," D'Averc mur-

mured. "But fear not, Duke, for when the Kamarg

falls it will be in my safekeeping if all goes well I plan

to claim the province as my reward for capturing you.

And these, my boon companions," he continued, indi-

cating his brutish servants, "I will elevate to rule the

Kamarg when I cannot. They share all aspects of my

lifemy secrets, my pleasures. It is only fair that they

should share my triumph. Ecardo I will make steward

of my estates, and I think I shall make Peter here a

Count."

From within the giant's mask came an animal grunt.

D'Averc smiled. "Peter has few brains, but his

strength and his loyalty are without question. Perhaps

I'll replace Count Brass with him."

Hawkmoon stirred angrily in his chains. "You are

a wily beast, D'Averc, but I will not let you goad me

to an outburst, if that's what you desire. I'll bide my

time. Perhaps I'll escape you yet. And if I doyou

may live in terror for the day when our roles are

reversed and you are in my power."

"I fear you are too optimistic, Duke. Rest here,

enjoy the peace, for you'll know none when you get

to Granbretan."

With a mocking bow, D'Averc left, his men follow-

ing. The torchlight faded, and Hawkmoon and Ola-

dahn were left in darkness.

"Ah," came Oladahn's voice after a while. "I find

it difficult to take my position seriously after all that

has happened today. I am still not even sure whether

this be dream, death, or reality."

"What did happen to you, Oladahn?" Hawkmoon

asked. "How could you survive that great leap? I had

imagined you dashed to death beneath the tower."

"By rights I should have been," Oladahn agreed.

"If I had not been arrested by ghosts in midfall."

"Ghosts? You jest."

"Nay. These thingslike ghostsappeared from

windows in the tower and bore me gently to earth.

They were the size and shape of men but barely

tangible...."

"You fell and knocked your head and dreamed

this stuff!"

"You could be right." Suddenly Oladahn paused.

"But if so, I am dreaming still. Look to your left."

Hawkmoon turned his head, gasping in astonish-

ment at what he saw. There, quite plainly, he could

see the figure of a man. Yet, as if through a pool of

milk, he could see beyond the man and make out the

wall behind him.

"Aghostofaclassicsort,"Hawkmoon said.

"Strange to share a dream...."

Faint, musical laughter came from the figure stand-

ing over them. "You do not dream, strangers. We are

men like you. The mass of our bodies is merely altered

a little, that is all. We do not exist in quite the same

dimensions as you. But we are real enough. We are

the men of Soryandum."

"So you have not deserted your city," Oladahn said.

"But how did you attain this . . . peculiar state of

existence."

The wraith-man laughed again. "By control of the

mind, by scientific experiment, by a certain mastery

of time and space. I regret that it would be impossible

to describe how we came to this condition, for we

reached it, among other ways, by the creation of an

entirely new vocabulary, and the language I would

use would mean nothing to you. However, be assured

of one thingwe are still able to judge human charac-

ter well enough and recognize you as potential friends

and those others as actual enemies."

"Enemies of yours? How so?" Hawkmoon asked.

"I will explain later." The wraith-man glided for-

ward until he was leaning over Hawkmoon. The

young Duke of Koln felt a strange pressure on his

body, and then he was lifted up. The man might have

looked intangible, but he seemed far stronger than an

ordinary mortal. From the shadows two more of the

wraith-people drifted, one to pick up Oladahn and

the other to raise his hand and somehow produce a

radiance in the dungeon that was mellow yet ade-

quate to illuminate the whole place. Hawkmoon saw

that the wraith-men were tall and slender, with thin,

handsome faces and blind-seeming eyes.

Hawkmoon had supposed at first that the people

of Soryandum were able to pass through solid walls,

but now he saw that they had entered from above,

for there was a large tunnel about halfway up the

wall. Perhaps in the distant past this tunnel had been

some land of chute down which sacks of stores had

been rolled.

Now the wraith-people rose into the air toward

the tunnel and entered it, drifting up it until light

could be seen far aheadthe light of moon and stars.

"Where are you taking us?" Hawkmoon whis-

pered.

"To a safer place where we shall be able to free you

of your chains," the man who carried him answered.

When they reached the top of the tunnel and felt

the chill of the night air, they paused while the one

who had no burden went ahead to make sure that

there were no Granbretanian warriors about. He

signed to the others to follow, and they drifted out

into the ruined streets of the silent city until they

came to a simple three-storied house that was in better

condition than the rest but seemed to have no means

of entrance at ground level.

The wraith-folk bore Hawkmoon and Oladahn up-

ward again, to the second level, and passed through

a wide window into the house.

In a room bare of any ornamentation they came to

rest, setting the pair down gently.

"What is this place?" Hawkmoon asked, still unable

to trust his senses.

"This is where we live," the wraith-man replied.

"There are not many of us. Though we live for cen-

turies, we are incapable of reproducing ourselves.

That is what we lost when we became as we are."

Now through the door came other figures, several

of them female. All were of the same beautiful and

graceful appearance, all had bodies of milky opaque-

ness; none wore clothes. The faces and bodies were

ageless, scarcely human, but they radiated such a

sense of tranquillity that Hawkmoon immediately felt

relaxed and secure.

One of the newcomers had brought with him a

small instrument, scarcely larger than Hawkmoon's

index finger, which he now applied to the several pad-

locks on the chains. One by one the locks sprang open,

until at last Hawkmoon and then Oladahn were free.

Hawkmoon sat up, rubbing at his aching muscles.

"I thank you," he said. "You have save me from an

unpleasant fate."

"We are happy to have been of use," replied one of

their number, slightly shorter than the rest. "I am

Rinal, once Chief Councilor of Soryandum." He

came forward smiling. "And we wonder if it would

interest you that you could be of help to us, also."

"I would be glad to perform any service in repay-

ment of what you have done for me," Hawkmoon

said earnestly. "What is it?"

"We, too, are in great danger from those strange

warriors with their grotesque beast-masks," Rinal told

him. "For they plan to raze Soryandum."

"Raze it? But why? This city offers no threat to

themand it is too remote to be worth their annex-

ing."

"Not so," Rinal said. "For we have listened to their

conversations and know that Soryandum is of value

to them. They wish to build a great structure here

that will house scores and hundreds of their flying

machines. The machines can then be sent out to all

the surrounding lands to threaten and defeat them."

"I understand," Hawkmoon murmured. "It makes

sense. And that is why D'Averc, the ex-architect, was

chosen for this particular mission. Building materials

already exist here and could be remodeled to form one

of their ornithopter bases, and the spot is so remote

that few, if any, would note the activity. The Dark

Empire would have surprise on their side right up to

the moment they wished to launch an attack. They

must be stopped!"

"They must be, if only for our sake," Rinal con-

tinued. "You see, we are part of this city perhaps more

than you can understand. It and we exist as the same

thing. If the city were destroyed, we should perish

also."

"But how can we stop them?" Hawkmoon said.

"And how can I be of use? You must have the re-

sources of a sophisticated science at your disposal. I

have only a swordand even that is in the hands of

D'Averc!"

"I told you that we are linked to the city," Rinal

said patiently. "And that is exactly the case. We can-

not move away from the city. Long ago we rid our-

selves of such unsubtle things as machines. They were

buried under a hillside many miles from Soryandum.

Now we have need for one particular machine, and

we cannot ourselves obtain it. You, however, with

your mortal mobility, could get it for us."

"Willingly," said Hawkmoon. "If you give us the

exact location of the machine we shall bring it to you.

Best if we left soon, before D'Averc realizes we have

escaped."

"I agree that the thing should be accomplished as

soon as possible," Rinal nodded, "but I have omitted

to tell you one thing. The machines were placed there

by us while we were still able to move short distances

away from Soryandum. To make sure that they were

not disturbed, we protected them with a beast-ma-

chinea dreadful contraption designed to frighten off

whoever should discover the store. But the metal

creature can also killwill kill any not of our race

who dares enter the cavern."

"Then how may we nullify this beast?" Oladahn

asked.

"There is but one way for you," Rinal said with a

sigh. "You must fight itand destroy it."

"I see." Hawkmoon smiled. "So I escape from one

predicament to face another scarcely less dangerous."

Rinal raised his hand. "No. We make no demands

on you. If you feel that your life would be more use-

ful in the service of some other cause, forget us at

once and go your way."

"I owe you my life," Hawkmoon said. "And my

conscience would not be clear if I rode away from

Soryandum knowing that your city would be de-

stroyed, your race exterminated, and the Dark Empire

given the opportunity to wreak even more havoc in

the East than it has already. NoI will do what I can,

though without weapons it will not be an easy task."

Rinal signed to one of the wraith-folk, who drifted

from the room, to return at length with Hawkmoon's

battered battle-blade and Oladahn's bow, arrows, and

sword. "We found it an easy matter to recover these,"

smiled Rinal. "And we have another weapon, of sorts,

for you." He handed Hawkmoon the tiny device they

had used earlier to open the padlocks. "This we re-

tained when we put most of our other machines in

store. It is capable of opening any lockall you must

do is point at it. It will help you gain entrance to the

main storeroom where the mechanical beast guards

the old machines of Soryandum."

"And what is the machine you desire us to find?"

Oladahn asked.

"It is a small device, about the size of a man's head.

Its colors are those of the rainbow, and it shines. It

looks like crystal but feels like metal It has a base of

onyx, and from this projects an octagonal object.

There may be two in the storeroom. If you can, bring

both."

"What does it do?" Hawkmoon inquired.

"That you will see when you return with it."

"If we return with it," said Oladahn in a tone of

philosophical gloom.

Chapter Four

THE MECHANICAL BEAST

HAVING REFRESHED THEMSELVES on food and wine

stolen from D'Averc's men by the wraith-folk,

Hawkmoon and Oladahn strapped on their weapons

and prepared to leave the house.

With two of the men of Soryandum supporting

them, they were borne gently down to the ground.

"May the Runestaff protect you," whispered one,

as the pair made for the city wall, "for we have heard

that you serve it." ,

Hawkmoon turned to ask him how he had heard

this. It was the second time he had been told that he

served the Runestaff; yet he had no knowledge that

he did. But before he could speak the wraith-man had

vanished.

Frowning, Hawkmoon led the way from the city.

Deep in the hills several miles from Soryandum,

Hawkmoon paused to get his bearings. Rinal had told

him to look for a cairn out of cut granite, left there

centuries before by Rinal's ancestors. At last he saw

it, old stone turned to silver by the moonlight.

"Now we go north," he said, "and look for the hill

from which the granite was cut."

Another half hour and they made out the hill. It

looked as if at some time a giant sword had sliced its

face sheer. Since that time grass had grown over it

again so that the characteristic seemed a natural one.

Hawkmoon and Oladahn crossed springy turf to a

place where thick shrubs grew against the side of the

hill. Parting these, they discerned a narrow opening in

the cliffside. This was the secret entrance to the ma-

chine stores of the men of Soryandum.

Squeezing through the entrance, the two men found

themselves in a large cave. Oladahn lit the brand they

had brought for the purpose, and the flickering light

revealed a great, square cavern that had evidently

been hewn artificially.

Remembering his instructions, Hawkmoon crossed

to the far wall of the cave and looked for a tiny mark

at shoulder height. At last he saw ita sign written in

unfamiliar characters, and beneath it a tiny hole.

Hawkmoon took from his shirt the instrument they

had been given and pointed it at the hole.

He felt a tingling sensation in his hand as he ap-

plied slight pressure to the instrument. The rock

before him began to tremble. A powerful gust of air

made the brand flames stream, threatening to blow

them out altogether. The wall began to glow, become

transparent, and then disappear altogether. "It will still

be there," Rinald had told them, "but temporarily

removed to another dimension."

Cautiously, swords in hand, they passed through

into a great tunnel that was full of cool, green light

that came from walls like fused glass.

Ahead of them lay another wall. On it glowed a

single red spot, and it was at this that Hawkmoon now

pointed the instrument.

Again there was a sudden rush of air. This time it

nearly blew them over. Then the wall glowed white,

turning to a milky blue before vanishing altogether.

This section of the tunnel was the same milky-blue

color, but the wall ahead of them was black. When it,

too, had faded, they entered a tunnel of yellow stone

and knew that the main store chamber and its guardian

lay ahead of them.

Hawkmoon paused before applying the instrument

to the white wall they faced.

"We must be cunning and move swiftly," he told

Oladahn, "for the creature beyond this wall will be

activated the moment it senses our presence"

He broke off as a muffled sound reached their ears

a fantastic clashing and clattering. The white wall

shuddered as if something on the other side had flung a

huge weight against it.

Oladahn looked dubiously at the wall "Perhaps we

should reconsider. After all, if we wasted our lives

uselessly we..."

But Hawkmoon was already activating the instru-

ment, and the protecting wall had begun to change

color as the strange, cold wind struck their faces.

From behind the wall came an awesome wail of pain

and bewilderment. The wall turned to pink, faded

and revealed the machine-beast.

The wall's disappearance seemed to have disturbed

it for an instant, for it made no move toward them.

It crouched on metal feet, towering over them, its

multicolored scales half-blinding them. The length of

its back, save for its neck, was a mass of knife-sharp

horns. It had a body fashioned somewhat like an ape's,

with short hind legs and long forelegs ending in hands

of taloned metal. Its eyes were multifaceted like a

fly's, glowing with shifting colors, and its snout was

full of razor-sharp metal teeth.

Beyond the mechanical beast they could see great

heaps of machinery, stacked in orderly rows about the

walls. The room was vast. Somewhere in the middle

of it, on his left, Hawkmoon saw the two crystalline

devices Rinal had described. Silently, he pointed to

them, then made to dash past the monster, into the

storeroom.

Their movements as they ran stirred the beast from

its daze. It screamed and lumbered after them, exuding

a weird metallic smell that was repulsive to Hawk-

moon's nostrils.

From the corner of his eye Hawkmoon saw a gi-

gantic taloned hand clutching at him. He swerved

aside, knocking into a delicate machine that toppled

and smashed to the floor, scattering bits of glass and

broken metal parts. The hand plucked at air an inch

from his face, then grabbed again, but Hawkmoon

had already sidestepped.

An arrow suddenly struck the beast's snout with

a clatter of metal on metal, but it did not scratch the

yellow and black scales.

With a roar, the beast sought its other enemy, saw

Oladahn, and pounced toward him.

Oladahn scampered backward but not fast enough,

for the creature seized him in its paw and drew him

toward its gaping mouth. Hawkmoon yelled and

struck with his sword at the thing's groin. It snorted

and flung its prisoner aside. Oladahn lay supine in a

corner by the door, either stunned or slain.

Hawkmoon backed away as the creature advanced;

then he suddenly changed tactics, ducked, and dashed

between the surprised beast's legs. As it began to turn,

Hawkmoon dashed back again.

The metal monster snorted in fury, its claws thrash-

ing about it. It leaped into the air and came down with

an ear-splitting crash, rushing across the floor of the

gallery at Hawkmoon, who squeezed down between

two machines and, using them for cover, crept closer,

to the machines he had come to take.

Now the monster began to wrench machines aside

in its insensate search for its enemy. Hawkmoon came

to a stop by a machine with a bell-shaped nozzle. At

the end of this nozzle was a lever. The machine

seemed to be some kind of weapon. Without pausing

to think, Hawkmoon pulled the lever. A faint noise

came from the thing, but nothing else seemed to

result.

Now the beast was almost upon him again.

Hawkmoon prepared to make a stand, deciding that

eh would fling his sword at one of the eyes, since they

seemed to be the creature's most vulnerable feature.

Rinal had told him that the mechanical beast could

not be killed in any ordinary sense; but if it were

blinded, he might stand a chance.

But now, as the beast came into the direct line of

the machine, it staggered and grunted. Evidently

some invisible ray was attacking it, possibly interfer-

ing with its complicated mechanism. It staggered, and

Hawkmoon felt triumphant for an instant, judging

the beast defeated. But the creature shook its body and

began to advance again with slow, painful movements.

Hawkmoon saw that it was slowly regaining its

strength. He must strike now if he was to have any

chance at all He ran toward the beast. It turned its

head slowly. But then Hawkmoon had leaped at its

squat neck and was climbing up the scales to seat him-

self on the mechanical beast's shoulders. With a growl

it raised its arm to tear Hawkmoon away.

Desperately Hawkmoon leaned forward and with

the pommel of his sword struck first at one eye and

then at the other. With a sharp, splintering sound,

both eyes were dashed to fragments.

The beast screamed, its paws going not to Hawk-

moon but to its injured eyes, giving the young Duke

time to leap from the creature's back and dash for the

two boxes he sought.

He pulled a sack from where it was looped over his

belt and dropped the two boxes into it.

The mechanical monster was flailing around. Metal

buckled and snapped wherever it struck. Blind it

might now be, but it had lost none of its strength.

Skipping around the screaming beast, Hawkmoon

ran to where Oladahn lay, bundled the little man over

his shoulder, and ran for the exit.

Behind him the metal beast had caught the sound

of his footsteps and had begun to turn in pursuit.

Hawkmoon increased his pace, his heart seeming

about to burst from his ribcage with the effort.

Down the corridors he raced, one after the other,

until he reached the cave and the narrow opening that

led to the outside world. The metal monster would

not be able to follow him through such a tiny crack.

As soon as he squeezed through the opening and

felt the night air in his lungs, he relaxed and studied

Oladahn's face. The little beast-man was breathing

well enough, and there seemed to be nothing broken.

Only a livid bruise on his head seemed serious, ex-

plaining why he was unconscious. Even as he in-

spected Oladahn's body for worse injuries, the beast-

man's eyes began to flutter open. A faint sound came

from his lips.

"Oladahn, are you all right?" Hawkmoon asked

anxiously.

"Ughmy head's on fire," Oladahn grunted.

"Where are we?"

"Safe. Now try to rise. Dawn is almost here, and

we must get back to Soryandum before morning, or

D'Averc's men will see us."

Painfully Oladahn pulled himself to his feet. From

within the cave came a wild howling and thundering

as the mechanical beast sought to reach them.

"Safe?" Oladahn said, pointing to the hillside

behind Hawkmoon. "Possiblybut for how long?"

Hawkmoon turned. A great fissure had appeared in

the cliff face as the mechanical beast strove to free

itself and follow its enemies.

"All the more need for speed," said Hawkmoon,

picking up his bundle and beginning to run back in

the direction of Soryandum.

They had not gone half a mile before they heard an

enormous crash behind them. Looking back, they saw

the face of the hill split open and the metal beast

emerge, its howling echoing through the hills, threat-

ening to reach all the way to Soryandum.

"The beast is blind," Hawkmoon explained, "so it

may not follow us at once. Perhaps if we can reach

the city we will be safe from it."

They increased their pace and were soon on the

outskirts of Soryandum.

Not much later, as dawn came, they were creeping

through the streets seeking the house of the wraith-

folk.

Chapter Five

THE MACHINE

RINAL AND TWO others met them by the house and

hastily bore them up to the entrance window.

As the sun rose and light fell through the windows,

making the wraith-folk look even less tangible than

before, Rinal eagerly took the boxes from Hawk-

moon's sack.

"They are as I remember," he murmured, his

strange body drifting into the light so that he might

look at the objects better. His ghostly hand stroked

the octagon set in its onyx base. "Now we need have

no fear of the masked strangers. We can escape from

them whenever we please...."

"But I thought there was no way for you to leave

the city," Oladahn said.

"That is truebut with these machines, we can take

the whole city with us, if we are lucky."

Hawkmoon was about to question Rinal further,

when he heard a commotion in the street outside and

sidled to the window to peer cautiously down. There

he saw D'Averc, his two brutish lieutenants, and about

twenty warriors. One of the warriors was pointing up

at the window.

"We must have been seen," Hawkmoon gasped.

"We must all leave. We cannot fight so many."

Rinal frowned. "We cannot leave, either. But if we

use our machine, it will leave you at D'Averc's mercy.

I am in a dilemma."

"Use the machine then," Hawkmoon said, "and let

us worry about D'Averc."

"We cannot let you die for our sakes! Not after

all you have done."

"Use the machine!"

But Rinal still hesitated.

Hawkmoon heard another sound outside and

glanced cautiously through the window. "They've

brought up ladders. They're about to enter. Use the

machine, Rinal."

Another of the wraith-folk, a woman said softly,

"Use the machine, Rinal. If what we heard was true,

then it is unlikely that our friend will come to much

harm at D'Averc's handsnot at this moment, any-

way."

"What do you mean?" Hawkmoon asked. "How

do you know this?"

"We have a friend not of our people," the woman

told him, "who sometimes visits us, bringing us news

of the outside world. He, too, serves the Runestaff"

"Is he a warrior in armor of jet and gold?" Hawk-

moon interrupted.

"Aye, he told us you"

"Duke Dorian!" Oladahn cried, pointing to the

window. The first of the boar warriors had reached

the window.

Hawkmoon whipped his sword from the scabbard,

leaped forward, and drove the blade into the throat of

the warrior just below his gorget. The man went back-

ward and down with a gurgling scream. Hawkmoon

seized the ladder, trying to twist it aside, but it was

firmly held below. Another warrior came level with

the window, and Oladahn swung at his head knock-

ing him sideways, but the man clung on. Hawkmoon

relinquished his hold on the ladder and hacked at the

man's gauntleted fingers. With a yell he let go and

crashed to the ground.

"The machine," Hawkmoon called desperately.

"Use it, Rinal. We cannot hold them for long."

From behind him there came a musical thrumming

sound, and Hawkmoon felt slightly dizzy as his sword

met that of the next attacker.

Then everything began to vibrate rapidly, and the

walls of the house turned bright red. Outside in the

street the boar warriors were yellingnot in surprise,

but in outright fear. Hawkmoon could not under-

stand why the sight terrified them so much.

He could see now that the whole city had turned

the same vibrating scarlet and seemed to be shaking

itself to pieces to harmony with the thrumming of the

machine. Then, abruptly, sound and city vanished and

Hawkmoon was falling gently earthward.

He heard the voice of Rinal, faint and disappearing,

say, "We have left you the twin of this machine. It is

our gift to aid you against your enemies. It has the

ability to shift whole areas of the earth into a slightly

different dimension of space-time. Our enemies will

not have Soryandum now...."

Then Hawkmoon landed on rocky ground, Ola-

dahn close by, and saw that there was not a trace of

the city. Instead there was pitted ground that looked

as if it had recently been plowed.

Some distance away were the troops of Gran-

bretan, D'Averc among them, and Hawkmoon could

see now why they had screamed in terror.

The machine beast had come at last to the city and

was attacking the boar warriors. Everywhere were the

battered and bleeding corpses of Granbretanians.

Urged on by D'Averc, who had his own sword drawn

and was joining them in the battle, the Granbretanians

were trying to destroy the monster.

Its metal spines shook in fury, its metal teeth

clashed in its head, and its metal talons ripped and

rended armor and flesh.

"The beast will take care of them," Hawkmoon

said. "Lookour horses." About three hundred yards

away stood the two bewildered steeds. Hawkmoon

and Oladahn ran for them and were soon mounted,

riding away from the site of Soryandum and the

carnage that the mechanical beast was making of

D'Averc's boars.

Now, with the strange gift of the wraith-folk

wrapped carefully and placed in Hawkmoon's saddle-

bag, the two adventurers continued their journey to

the coast.

The coarse turf was easier on the horses hooves,

and they made rapid progress over the hills until they

came at last to the wide valley where the Euphrates

flowed.

By the banks of the broad river they made their

camp and debated how best to cross, for the water

was fast-flowing at this stretch, and according to

Hawkmoon's map, they would have to journey sev-

eral miles south before they came to a likely fording

place.

Hawkmoon stared across the water as the setting

sun stained it the color of blood. A long, almost silent

sigh escaped him, and Oladahn looked up curiously

from where he was laying the fire.

"What troubles you, Duke Dorian? One would

have thought you in good spirits after our escape."

"It is the future that troubles me, Oladahn. If

D'Averc was right and Count Brass lies wounded,

with von Villach dead and the Kamarg under power-

ful siege, then I fear we shall return to find nothing

but the ashes and mud Baron Meliadus once promised

he would make of the Kamarg."

"Let us wait until we get there," Oladahn said with

attempted cheerfulness, "for it is likely that D'Averc

only sought to make you gloomy. Almost certainly

your Kamarg still stands. From all you have told me

of the great defenses and the mighty valor of the

province, I do not doubt that they still hold against

the Dark Empire. You will see...."

"But will I?" Hawkmoon's gaze dropped to the

darkening ground. "Will I, Oladahn? D'Averc was

almost certainly right when he spoke of Granbretan's

other conquests. If Sicilia is theirs, then so must be

parts of Italia and Espanyia. Don't you see what that

means?"

"Outside of the Bulgar mountains, my geography

is weak," Oladahn said embarrassedly.

"It means that all routes to the Kamargby both

land and seaare blocked by the Dark Empire's

hordes. Even if we reach the sea and find a ship, what

chance will we have of passing unharmed through

the Sicilian channel? The waters there must be thick

with Dark Empire ships."

"But do we have to travel that way? What about

the route you used to reach the East?"

Hawkmoon frowned. "Much of that territory I

flew across, and it would take twice the time to go

back that way. Also Granbretan has already made

extra gains there."

"But the territories under their control could be

circumnavigated," Oladahn said. "At least on land we

should stand some chance, while on sea, from what

you say, no chance at all"

"Aye," said Hawkmoon thoughtfully. "But it

would mean crossing Turkiaa journey of several

weeks. But then, perhaps, we could use the Black Sea,

which, I hear, is fairly free of Dark Empire ships still."

He consulted the map. "Ayethe Black Sea across to

Romaniabut then it would become increasingly dan-

gerous as we neared France, for the Dark Empire's

forces are everywhere thereabouts. Still, you are right

we would have a better chance by that route; might

even slay a couple of Granbretanians and use their

masks as disguises. One disadvantage that they have

is that their faces cannot be recognized as those of

friend or foe. If it were not for the secret languages

of the various orders, we could travel safely enough

if tricked out in beast masks and armor."

"Then we change our route," Oladahn said.

"Yes. We go north in the morning."

For a number of long days they followed the Eu-

phrates north, crossing the borders between Syria and

Turkia and coming at length to the quiet white town

of Birachek, where the Euphrates became the Firat

River.

In Birachek a wary innkeeper, suspecting them as

servants of the Dark Empire, told them at first that

there were no rooms, but then Hawkmoon pointed

to the black jewel in his forehead and said, "My name

Dorian, last Duke of Koln, sworn enemy of Gran-

bretan," and the innkeeper, even in this remote town,

had heard of him and let them in.

Later that night they sat in the public room of the

inn, drinking sweet wine and talking to the members

of a trading caravan that had arrived in Birachek

shortly before them.

The traders were swarthy men with blue-black

hair and beards that gleamed with oil. They were

dressed in leather shirts and brightly colored divided

kilts of wool; over these clothes they wore woven

cloaks, also of wool, in geometric designs of purple,

red, and yellow. These cloaks, they told the travelers,

showed that they were the men of Yenahan, merchant

of Ankara. At their waists were curved sabers with

richly decorated hilts and engraved blades, worn un-

scabbarded. These traders were as used to fighting as

they were to bartering.

Their leader, Saleem, hawk-nosed and with piercing

blue eyes, leaned forward over the table to speak

slowly to the Duke of Koln and Oladahn.

"You have heard that emissaries of the Dark Em-

pire pay court to the Calif of Istanbul and pay that

thriftless monarch to let them station a large force of

bull-masked warriors within the city walls?"

Hawkmoon shook his head. "I have little news of

the world. But I believe you. It is the way of Gran-

bretan to take with gold rather than take with force.

Only if gold is no longer of use will they produce

their weapons and armies."

Saleem nodded. "As I thought. You would not,

then, think Turkia safe from the Western wolves?"

"Not any part of the world, even Amarehk, is safe

from their ambition. They dream of conquering lands

that might not even exist, save in fables. They plan

to take Asiacommunista, though they must find it first.

Arabia and the East are mere camping grounds for

their armies."

"But could they have such power?" Saleem asked,

astonished.

"They have the power," Hawkmoon said with con-

fidence. "They have a madness, too, which makes

them savage, cunningand inventive. I have seen Lon-

dra, capital of Granbretan, and its vast architecture is

that of brilliant nightmares made solid. I have seen the

King-Emperor himself, in his throne globe of milky

fluida wizened immortal with the golden voice of a

youth. I have seen the laboratories of the sorcerer-

scientistsinnumerable caverns of bizarre machines,

many whose functions have yet to be rediscovered by

the Granbretanians themselves. And I have talked

with their nobles, learned of their ambitions, know

them to be more insane than anything you or any

other normal man could imagine. They are without

humanity, have little feeling for each other and none

at all for those they regard as lower speciesthat is,

all those not of Granbretan. They crucify men, wo-

men, children, and animals to decorate and mark the

roads to and from their conquests. . . ."

Saleem leaned back with a wave of his hand. "Ah,

come now, Duke Dorian, you exaggerate. ..."

Hawkmoon said forcefully, glaring into Saleem's

eyes, "I tell you this, trader of TurkiaI cannot ex-

aggerate the evil of Granbretan!"

Saleem frowned then and shuddered. "II believe

you," he said. "But I wish that I could not. For how

can the little nation of Turkia withstand such might

and cruelty?"

Hawkmoon sighed. "I can offer no solution. I would

say that you should band together, do not let them

weaken you with gold and gradual encroachment in

your landsbut I would waste my rhetoric if I tried,

for men are greedy and will not see the truth for the

gleam of coin. Resist them, I would say, with honor

and honest courage, with wisdom and with idealism.

Yet those who resist them are vanquished and tor-

tured, see their wives raped and torn apart before their

eyes, their children become playthings of warriors and

heaped on fires lit to burn whole cities. But if you do

not resist, if you escape death in battle, then the same

could still happen to you, or you and yours become

cringing things, less than human, willing to perform

any indignity, any act of evil, to save your skins. I

spoke of honestyand honesty forbids me to encour-

age you with brave talk of noble battle and warriors'

deaths. I seek to destroy themI am their declared en-

emybut I have great allies and considerable luck,

and even I feel that I cannot forever escape their ven-

geance, though I have done so several times. I can only

advise those who would save something to resist the

minions of King Huonuse cunning. Use cunning,

my friend. It is the only weapon we have against the

Dark Empire."

"Pretend to serve them, you mean?" Saleem said

thoughtfully.

"I did so. I am alive now and comparatively free..."

"I will remember your words, westerner."

"Remember them all" Hawkmoon warned him.

"For the hardest compromise to make is when you

decide to appear to compromise. Often the deception

becomes the reality long before you realize it."

Saleem fingered his beard. "I understand you." He

glanced about the room. The flickering shadows of

the torches seemed to take on a sudden menace. "How

long, I wonder, will it be? ... So much of Europe

is already theirs."

"Have you heard anything of the province called

the Kamarg?" asked Hawkmoon.

"The Kamarg. A land of horned werebeasts, is it

not, and half-human monsters with mighty powers,

who have somehow managed to stand against the Dark

Empire. They are led by a metal giant, the Brass

Count..."

Hawkmoon smiled. "You have heard much that is

legend. Count Brass is flesh and blood, and there are

few monsters in the Kamarg. The only horned beasts

are the bulls of the marshlands and the horses, too.

And have they still resisted the Dark Empire? Heard

you of how Count Brass fares, or his lieutenant von

Villachor Count Brass's daughter, Yisselda?"

"I heard Count Brass dead and his lieutenant, too.

But of a girl I heard nothingand as far as I know the

Kamarg still stands."

Hawkmoon rubbed at the black jewel. "Your infor-

mation is not certain enough. I cannot believe that if

Count Brass is dead the Kamarg still stands. If Count

Brass goes down, so does the province."

"Well, I speak only of rumors surrounding other

rumors," Saleem said. "We traders are sure of local

gossip, but most of what we hear of the West is vague

and obscure. You come from the Kamarg, do you

not?"

"It is my adopted home," Hawkmoon agreed. "If it

still exists."

Oladahn put his hand on Hawkmoon's shoulder.

"Do not be depressed, Duke Dorian. You said your-

self that Trader Saleem's information is barely cred-

ible. Wait until we are nearer our goal before you lose

hope."

Hawkmoon made an effort to rid himself of the

mood, calling for more wine and plates of broiled

pieces of mutton and hot unleavened bread. And al-

though he was able to appear more cheerful, his mind

was not at rest for fear that all those he loved were in-

deed dead and the wild beauty of the Kamarg marsh-

lands now turned to a burning waste.

Chapter Six

MAD GOD'S SHIP

TRAVELING WITH SALEEM and his traders to Ankara

and thence to the port of Zonguldak on the Black Sea,

Hawkmoon and Oladahn were able, with the help of

papers supplied by Saleem's master, to get passage on

board the Smiling Girl, the only ship ready to take

them with it to Simferopol on the coast of a land

called Crimia. Smiling Girl was not a pretty vessel,

and neither did she seem happy. Captain and crew

were filthy, and the decks below stank of a thousand

different kinds of rot. Yet they were forced to pay

heavily for the privilege of passage on the tub, and

their quarters were little less noxious than the bilges

over which they were positioned. Captain Mouso,

with his long, greasy mustachios and shifty eyes, did

not inspire their confidence, and neither did the bottle

of strong wine that seemed permanently in the mate's

hairy paw.

Philosophically, Hawkmoon decided that at least

the ship would hardly be worth a pirate's attention

and, for the same reason, a Dark Empire ship's atten-

tionand went aboard with Oladahn shortly before

she sailed.

Smiling Girl lumbered away from the quayside on

the early-morning ride. As her patched sails caught

the wind, every timber in her groaned and creaked;

she turned sluggishly north northeast under a darken-

ing sky that was full of rain. The morning was cool

and gray, with a peculiar muted quality to it that

dampened sounds and made seeing an effort.

Huddled in his cloak, Hawkmoon stood in the

fo'c'sle and watched as Zonguldak disappeared behind

them.

Rain had begun to fall in heavy drops by the time

the port was out of sight and Oladahn came up from

below to move along the heaving deck toward Hawk-

moon.

"I've cleaned up our quarters as best I can, Duke

Dorian, though we'll not be free of the smell from the

rest of the shipand there's little, I'd guess, that

would scare away such fat rats as I saw."

"We'll bear it," Hawkmoon said stoically. "We've

borne worse, and the voyage is only for two days." He

glanced at the mate, who was reeling out of the wheel-

house. "Though I'd be happier if I thought the ship's

officers and crew were a trifle more capable." He

smiled. "If the mate drinks any more and the captain

lies snoring much longer, we may find ourselves with

a command!"

Rather than go below, the two men stood together

in the rain, looking to the north and wondering what

might befall them on their long journey to the Ka-

marg.

The miserable ship sailed on through the miserable

day, tossed on the rough sea, blown by a treacherous

wind that ever threatened to become a storm but al-

ways stopped just short. The captain stumbled onto

the bridge from time to time, to shout at his men, to

curse them and beat them into the rigging to reef that

sail or loose another. To Hawkmoon and Oladahn,

Captain Mouso's orders seemed entirely arbitrary.

Toward evening, Hawkmoon went to join the Cap-

tain on the bridge. Mouso looked up at him with a

shifty expression.

"Good evening, sir," he said, sniffing and wiping

his long nose with his sleeve. "I hope the voyage's to

your satisfaction."

"Reasonably, thank you. What time have we made

good or bad?"

"Good enough, sir," replied the skipper, turning so

that he did not have to look at Hawkmoon directly.

"Good enough. Shall I have the galley prepare you

some supper?"

Hawkmoon nodded. "Aye."

The mate appeared from below the bridge, singing

softly to himself and evidently blind drunk.

Now a sudden squall hit the ship side on, and the

ship wallowed over alarmingly. Hawkmoon clung to

the rail, feeling that at any moment it would crumble

away in his hand. Captain Mouso seemed oblivious of

any danger, and the mate was flat on his face, bottle

falling from his hand as his body slid nearer and nearer

to the side.

"Better help him," Hawkmoon said.

Captain Mouso laughed. "He's all righthe's got

a drunkard's luck."

But now the mate's body was against the starboard

rail, his head and one shoulder already through.

Hawkmoon leaped down the companionway to grab

the man and haul him back to safety as the ship

heaved again, this time in the other direction, and salt

waves washed the deck.

Hawkmoon looked down at the man he had res-

cued. The mate lay on his back, eyes closed, lips mov-

ing in the words of the song he'd been singing.

Hawkmoon laughed, shaking his head, calling up to

the skipper, "You're righthe has a drunkard's luck."

Then, as he turned his head to port, he thought he saw

something in the water. The light was fading fast, but

he was sure he had seen a vessel of some kind not too

far away.

"Captaindo you see anything yonder?" he yelled,

going to the rail and peering into the mass of heaving

water.

"Looks like a raft of some kind," Mouso called

back.

Hawkmoon was soon able too see the thing more

closely as a wave swept it nearer. It was a raft, with

three men clinging to it.

"Shipwrecked by the look of 'em," Mouso called

casually. "Poor bastards." He shrugged, his shoulders.

"Ah, well, not our affairs ..."

"Captain, we must save them," Hawkmoon said.

"We'll never do it in this light. Besides, we're wast-

ing time. I'm carrying no cargo save yourself on this

trip and have to be in Simferopol on time to pick up

my cargo before someone else does."

"We must save them," Hawkmoon said firmly. "Ol-

adhana rope."

The Bulgar beast-man found a coil of rope in the

wheelhouse and came hurrying down with it. The

raft was still in sight, its burden flat on their faces,

clinging to it for dear life. Sometimes it vanished in a

great trough of water, reappearing after several sec-

onds, a fair distance from the boat. The gap between

them was widening all the time, and Hawkmoon knew

that there was very little time before the raft would

be too far away for them to reach it. Lashing one end

of the rope to the rail and looping the other about his

waist, he stripped off cloak and sword and dived into

the foaming ocean.

At once, Hawkmoon realized the danger he was in.

The great waves were almost impossible to swim

against, and there was every chance of his being dashed

against the side of the ship, stunned, and drowned.

But he struggled on through the water, fighting to

keep it out of his mouth and eyes as he searched about

for the raft.

There it was! And now its occupants had seen the

ship and were standing up, waving and shouting. They

had not seen Hawkmoon swimming toward them.

As he swam, Hawkmoon caught glimpses of the

men from time to time, but he could not distinguish

them clearly. Two now seemed to be struggling,

while the third seemed to be sitting upright watching

them.

"Hold on!" Hawkmoon called above the crash of

the sea and the moan of the wind. Exerting all his

strength, he swam even harder and was soon nearly

upon the raft as it was tossed on a wild chaos of black-

and white water.

Then Hawkmoon caught the edge of the raft and

saw that indeed two of the men were fighting in earn-

est. He saw, too, that they wore the snouted masks of

the Order of the Boar. The men were warriors of

Granbretan.

For an instant Hawkmoon debated leaving them to

their fate. But if he did that, he reasoned, he would

be no better than they. He must do his best to save

them, then decide what to do with them.

He called up to the fighting pair, but they did not

seem to hear him. They grunted and cursed in their

struggle, and Hawkmoon wondered if they had not

been demented by their ordeal.

Hawkmoon tried to heave himself onto the raft, but

the water and the rope around his body dragged him

down. He saw the seated figure look up and sign to

him almost casually.

"Help me," Hawkmoon gasped, "or I'll not be able

to help you."

The figure rose and swayed across the raft until his

way was blocked by the fighting men. With a shrug

he seized their necks, paused for an instant until the

raft dipped in the water, then pushed them into the

sea.

"Hawkmoon, my dear friend!" came a voice from

within the boar mask. "How happy I am to see you.

ThereI've helped you. I've lightened our load . . ."

Hawkmoon made a grab at one of the drowning

men who still struggled with his companion. In the

heavy masks and armor, they were bound to be

dragged down in seconds. But he could not reach

them. He watched in fascination as, with seeming

gradualness, the masks sank below the waves.

He glared up at the survivor, who was leaning down

to offer him a hand. "You have murdered your friends,

D'Averc! I've a good mind to let you go down with

them."

"Friends? My dear Hawkmoon, they were no such

thing. Servants, aye, but not friends." D'Averc braced

himself as another wave tossed the raft, nearly forcing

Hawkmoon to lose his grasp. "Not friends. They were

loyal enoughbut dreadfully boring. And they made

fools of themselves. I cannot tolerate that. Come along

let me help you aboard my little vessel. It is not much,

but. .."

Hawkmoon allowed D'Averc to help him onto the

raft, then turned and waved toward the ship, just vis-

ible through the darkness. He felt the rope tighten as

Oladahn began to haul on it.

"It was fortunate that you were passing," D'Averc

said coolly as slowly they were drawn toward the

ship. "I had thought myself as good as drowned and

all my glorious promise barely fulfilledand then who

should come by in his splendid ship but the noble

Duke of Koln. Fate flings us together once again,

Duke."

"Aye, but I'll readily fling you away again as you

flung your friends, if you do not hold tongue and help

me with this rope," growled Hawkmoon.

The raft plunged through the sea and at last bumped

against Smiling Girl's half-rotten side. A rope ladder

sanked down, and Hawkmoon began to climb, finally

hauling himself with relief over the rail, gasping for

breath.

When Oladahn saw the next man's head emerge

over the side, he cursed and made to draw his sword,

but Hawkmoon stopped him. "He's our prisoner, and

we might as well keep him alive, for he could be a

useful bargaining counter if we are in trouble later."

"How sensible!" D'Averc exclaimed admiringly,

then began coughing. "Forgive memy ordeal has

desperately weakened me, I fear. A change of clothes,

some hot grog, a good night's rest, and I'll be myself

again."

"You'll be lucky if we let you rot in the bilges,"

Hawkmoon said. "Take him below to our cabin,

Oladahn."

Huddled in the tiny cabin that was dimly lit by a

small lantern hanging from the roof, Hawkmoon and

Oladahn watched D'Averc strip himself of his mask,

armor and sodden undergarments.

"How did you come to be on the raft, D'Averc?"

Hawkmoon asked as the Frenchman fussily dried

himself. Even he was slightly nonplussed by the man's

apparent coolness. He admired the quality and even

wondered if he did not actually like D'Averc in some

strange way. Perhaps it was D'Averc's honesty in ad-

mitting his ambition, his unwillingness to justify his

actions, even if, as recently, they involved casual mur-

der.

"A long story, my dear friend. The three of us

Ecardo, Peter, and Ileft the men to deal with that

blind monster you released upon us and managed to

reach the safety of the hills. A little later the ornithop-

ter we had sent to collect you arrived and began to

circle, evidently puzzled by the disappearance of an

entire cityas we were, I must admit; you must explain

that to me later. Well, we signaled to the pilot, and

he came down. We had already realized the somewhat

difficult position we found ourselves in. . . ." D'Av-

erc paused. "Is there any food to be had?"

"The skipper has ordered some supper from the

galley," Oladahn said. "Continue."

"We were three men without horses in a rather

barren part of the world. As well, we had failed to

keep you when we had captured you, and as far as

we knew, the pilot was the only living man left who

knew that we had done that...."

"You killed the pilot?" Hawkmoon said.

"Just so. It was necessary. Then we boarded his

machine with the intention of reaching the nearest

base."

"What happened?" Hawkmoon asked. "Did you

know how to control the ornithopter?"

D'Averc smiled. "You have guessed correctly. My

knowledge of the things is limited. We managed to

gain the air, but then the wretched thing would not

be steered. Before we knew it, it was carrying us off

to the Runestaff knows where. I feared for my safety,

I must admit. The monster behaved increasingly er-

ratically, until at last it began to fall. I managed to

guide it so that it landed on a soft riverbank, and we

were barely hurt. Ecardo and Peter had become hys-

terical, quarreling among themselves, becoming un-

bearable in their manners and most hard to control.

However, we somehow managed to build a raft with

the intention of floating down the river until we came

to a town...."

"That same raft?" Hawkmoon asked.

"The same, aye."

"Then how did you come to be at sea?"

"Tides, my good friend." D'Averc said with an

airy wave of his hand. "Currents. I had not realized

we were so close to an estuary. We were swept along

at a most appalling rate, carried far beyond land. On

that raftthat damnable raftwe spent the next sev-

eral days, with Peter and Ecardo whining at one an-

other, blaming one another for their predicament

when they should have blamed me. Oh, I cannot tell

you what an ordeal it was, Duke Dorian."

"You deserved worse," Hawkmoon said.

There came a knock on the cabin door. Oladahn

answered it and admitted a scruffy cabin boy carrying

a tray on which were three bowls containing some

kind of gray stew.

Hawkmoon accepted the tray and handed D'Averc

a bowl and a spoon. For a moment D'Averc hesitated;

then he took a mouthful. He seemed to eat with great

control. He finished the dish and replaced the empty

bowl on the tray. "Delicious," he said. "Quite perfect,

for ship's cooking."

Hawkmoon, who had been nauseated by the mess,

handed D'Averc his own bowl, and Oladahn, too

preferred his.

"I thank you," said D'Averc. "I believe in modera-

tion. Enough is as good as a feast."

Hawkmoon smiled slightly, once again admiring the

Frenchman's coolness. Evidently the food had tasted

as foul to him as it had to them, but his hunger had

been so great that he had eaten the stuff anyway, and

with panache.

Now D'Averc stretched, his rippling muscles be-

lying his claim to invalidism. "Ah," he yawned. "If

you will forgive me, gentlemen, I will sleep now. I

have had a trying and tiring few days."

"Take my bed," Hawkmoon said, indicating his

cramped bunk. He did not mention that earlier he had

noticed what had seemed to be a whole tribe of bugs

nesting in it. I'll see if the skipper has a hammock."

"I am grateful," D'Averc said, and there seemed to

be a surprising seriousness about his tone that made

Hawkmoon wheel away from the door.

"For what?"

D'Averc began to cough ostentatiously, then looked

up and said in his old, mocking tone, "Why, my dear

Duke, for saving my life, of course."

In the morning the storm had died down, and though

the sea was still rough it was much calmer than the

previous day.

Hawkmoon met D'Averc on deck. The man was

dressed in coat and britches of green velvet but was

without his armor. He bowed when he saw Hawk-

moon.

"You slept well?" asked Hawkmoon.

"Excellently." D'Averc's eyes were full of humor,

and Hawkmoon guessed that he had been bitten a

good many times.

"Tonight we should make port," Hawkmoon told

him. "You will be my prisonermy hostage, if you

like."

"Hostage? Do you think the Dark Empire cares if

I live or die once I have lost my usefulness?"

"We shall see," said Hawkmoon, fingering the

jewel in his skull. "If you attempt to escape, I shall

certainly kill youas coolly as you killed your men."

D'Averc coughed into the handkerchief he carried.

"I owe you my life," he said. "So it is yours to take if

you would."

Hawkmoon frowned. D'Averc was far too devious

for him to understand properly. He was beginning to

regret his decision. The Frenchman might prove more

of a liability than he had bargained for.

Oladahn came hurrying along the deck. "Duke

Dorian," he panted, pointing forward. "A sailand it's

heading directly toward us."

"We're in little danger,"Hawkmoon smiled.

"We're no prize for a pirate."

But moments later Hawkmoon noticed signs of

panic among the crew, and as the captain stumbled

past, he caught his arm. "Captain Mousowhat is it?"

"Danger, sir," rasped the skipper. "Great danger.

Did you not read the sail?"

Hawkmoon peered toward the horizon and saw

that the ship carried a single black sail. On it was

painted an emblem of some kind, but he could not

make out what it was. "Surely they'll not trouble us,"

he said. "Why should they risk a fight for a tub like

thisand you said yourself we're carrying no cargo."

"They care not what we carry or don't carry, sir.

They attack anything on the ocean on sight. They're

like killer whales, Duke Doriantheir pleasure is not

in taking treasure but in destruction!"

"Who are they? Not a Granbretanian ship by the

look of it," D'Averc said.

"Even one of those would probably not bother to

attack us," stuttered Captain Mouso. "Nothat is a

ship crewed by those belonging to the Cult of the Mad

God. They are from Muskovia and in recent months

have begun to terrorize these waters."

"They definitely seem to have the intention of at-

tacking," D'Averc said lightly. "With your permis-

sion, Duke Dorian, I'll go below and don my sword

and armor."

"I'll get my weapons, too," Oladahn said. "I'll

bring your sword for you."

"No point in fighting!" It was the mate, gesticulat-

ing with his bottle. "Best throw ourselves in the sea

now."

"Aye," Captain Mouso nodded, looking after

D'Averc and Oladahn as they went to fetch their

weapons. "He's right. We'll be outnumbered, and

they'll tear us to pieces. If we're captured, they'll

torture us for days."

Hawkmoon started to say something to the captain,

then turned as he heard a splash. The mate had gone

as good as his word. Hawkmoon rushed to the side

but could see nothing.

"Don't bother to help himfollow him," the skip-

per said, "for he's the wisest of us all."

The ship was bearing down on them now, its black

sail painted with a pair of great red wings, and in the

center of them was a huge, bestial face, howling as if

in the throes of maniacal laughter. Crowding the

decks were scores of naked men wearing nothing but

sword belts and metal-studded collars. Drifting across

the water came a weird sound that Hawkmoon could

not at first make out. Then he glanced at the sail again

and knew what it was.

It was the sound of wild, insane laughter, a sound

as if the damned of hell were moved to merriment.

"The Mad God's ship," said Captain Mouso, his

eyes beginning to fill with tears. "Now we die."

Chapter Seven

THE RING ON THE FINGER

HAWKMOON, OLADAHN, and D'Averc stood shoulder

to shoulder by the port rail of the ship as the weird

vessel sped closer and closer.

The members of the crew had all clustered around

their captain, as far as possible away from the attack-

ers.

Looking at the rolling eyes and foaming mouths of

the madmen in the ship, Hawkmoon decided that their

chances were all but hopeless. Grappling irons snaked

out from the Mad God's ship and bit into the soft

wood of Smiling Girl's rail. Instantly the three men

began to hack at the ropes, severing most of them.

Hawkmoon yelled to the captain, "Get your men

alofttry to turn the ship." But the frightened men

did not move. "You'll be safer in the rigging!" Hawk-

moon shouted. They began to stir but still did

nothing.

Hawkmoon was forced to return his attention to

the attacking ship and was horrified to see it looming

over them, its insane crew clustering against the rail,

some already beginning to climb over, ready to leap

onto Smiling Girl's deck, cutlasses drawn. Their

laughter filled the air, and bloodlust shone on their

twisted faces.

The first came flying down on Hawkmoon, naked

body gleaming, sword raised. Hawkmoon's own blade

came up to skewer the man as he fell; another twist

of the sword and the corpse dropped down through

the narrow gap between the ships, into the sea. Within

moments the air was full of naked warriors swinging

on ropes, jumping wildly, clambering hand over hand

across the grappling lines. The three men stopped the

first wave, hacking about them until everything

seemed bloodred, but gradually they were forced

away from the rail as the madmen swarmed onto the

deck, fighting without skill but with a chilling dis-

regard for their own lives.

Hawkmoon became separated from his comrades,

did not know if they lived or had been killed. The

prancing warriors flung themselves at him, but he

clutched his battle blade in both hands and swung it

about him in a great arc, this way and that, surround-

ing himself with a blur of bright steel. He was covered

in blood from head to foot; only his eyes gleamed,

blue and steady, from the visor of his helmet.

And all the while the Mad God's men laughed

laughed even as their heads were chopped from their

necks, their limbs from their bodies.

Hawkmoon knew that eventually weariness would

overcome him. Already the sword felt heavy in his

hands and his knees shook. His back against a bulk-

head, he hacked and stabbed at the seemingly cease-

less wave of giggling madmen whose swords sought

to slash the life from him.

Here a man was decapitated, there another dis-

membered, but every blow drained more energy from

Hawkmoon.

Then, as he blocked two swords that struck at him

at once, his leg buckled and he went down to one

knee. The laughter grew louder, triumphant, as the

Mad God's men moved in for the kill.

He hacked upward desperately, gripping the wrist

of one of his attackers and wrenching the sword

away from him so that now he had two blades. Using

the madman's sword to thrust and his own to swing,

he managed to regain his footing, kicked out at

another man, and scrambled away, to rush up the com-

panionway to the bridge. At the top of the compan-

ionway he turned to fight again, this time with an

increased advantage over the howling madmen who

crowded up the steps toward him. He saw now that

both D'Averc and Oladahn were in the rigging, man-

aging to keep their attackers at bay. He glanced to-

ward the Man God's ship. It was still held fast by

grappling ropes, but it was deserted. Its entire crew

was on board the Smiling Girl. Hawkmoon at once

had an idea.

He wheeled about, running from the warriors,

leaped to the rail, and grabbed a rope that trailed

from the crosstrees. Then he flung himself into space.

He prayed that the rope would be long enough as

he hurtled through the air, then let go, diving, it ap-

peared, over the side of the ship. His grasping hands

just managed to catch the rail of the enemy ship as he

fell. He hauled himself onto the deck and began

slashing at the grappling ropes, yelling, "Oladahn

D'Averc! Quicklyfollow me!"

From the rigging of the other ship the two men

saw him and began climbing higher, to walk pre-

cariously along the mainmast's yardarm while the

men of the Mad God swarmed behind them.

The Mad God's ship was already beginning to slide

away, the gap between it and Smiling Girl widening

rapidly.

D'Averc jumped first, diving for the black-sailed

ship's rigging arid clutching a rope one-handed, to

swing for an instant, threatening to drop to his death.

Oladahn followed him, cutting loose a rope and

swinging across the gap, to slide down the rope and

land on the deck, where he fell spread-eagled on his

face.

Several of the insane warriors tried to follow, and

a number actually managed to reach the deck of their

own ship. Still laughing, they came at Hawkmoon in

a bunch, doubtless judging Oladahn dead.

Hawkmoon was hard put to defend himself. A

blade slashed his arm, another caught his face below

the visor. Then suddenly, from above, a body dropped

into the center of the naked warriors and began hew-

ing around him, almost as much a maniac as they.

It was D'Averc in his boar-headed armor, streaming

with the blood of those he had slain. And now, at the

back of their attackers came Oladahn, evidently only

winded by his fall, yelling a wild mountain battle cry.

Soon every one of the madmen who had managed

to reach the ship was dead. The others were leaping

from the deck of Smiling Girl into the water, still

laughing weirdly, trying to swim after the ship.

Looking back at Smiling Girl, Hawkmoon saw that

miraculously most of her crew had apparently sur-

vivedat the last minute they had climbed to the

safety of the mizzen mast.

D'Averc raced forward and took the wheel of the

Mad God's ship, cutting the lashings and steering

from the vainly swimming men.

"Well," breathed Oladahn, sheathing his sword

and inspecting his cuts, "we seem to have escaped

lightlyand with a better ship."

"With luck we'll beat Smiling Girl into port,"

Hawkmoon grinned. "I hope she's still bound for

Crimia, for she has all our possessions on board."

Skillfully, D'Averc was turning the ship about,

toward the north. The single sail bulged as it caught

the wind and the boat left the swimming madmen be-

hind. Even as they drowned, they continued to laugh.

After they had helped D'Averc relash the wheel so

that the ship continued roughly on course, they began

to explore the ship. It was crammed with treasure

evidently pillaged from a score of ships, but also there

were all kinds of useless thingsbroken weapons and

ships' instruments, bundles of clothingand here and

there a rotting corpse or a dismembered body, all piled

together in the holds.

The three men decided to get rid of the corpses

first, wrapping them in cloaks or bundling up the

various limbs in rags and tossing them overboard. It

was disgusting work and took a long time, for some

of the remains were hidden under mounds of other

things.

Suddenly Oladahn paused as he worked, his eyes

fixed on a severed human hand that had become mum-

mified in some way. Reluctantly, he picked it up, in-

specting a ring on the little finger. He glanced at

Hawkmoon.

"Duke Dorian...."

"What is it? Do not bother to save the ring. Just

get rid of the thing."

"Noit is the ring itself. Lookit has a peculiar

design...."

Impatiently Hawkmoon crossed the dimly lit hold

and peered at the thing, gasping as he recognized it.

"No! It cannot be!"

The ring was Yisselda's. It was the ring Count

Brass had placed on her finger to mark her betrothal

to Dorian Hawkmoon.

Numbed with horror, Hawkmoon took the mum-

mified hand, a look of incomprehension on his face.

"What is it?" Oladahn whispered. "What is it that

so disturbs you?"

"It is hers. It is Yisselda's."

"But how could she have come to be sailing this

ocean so many hundreds of miles from the Kamarg?

It is not possible, Duke Dorian."

"The ring is hers." Hawkmoon gazed at the hand,

inspecting it eagerly as realization struck him. "But

the hand is not. See, the ring barely fits the little fin-

ger. Count Brass placed it on the middle finger, and

even then it was a loose fit. This is the hand of some

thief." He wrenched the precious ring from the finger

and threw the hand down. "Someone who was in the

Kamarg, perhaps, and stole the ring...." He shook his

head. "It's unlikely. But what is the explanation?"

"Perhaps she journeyed this wayseeking you,

maybe," Oladahn suggested.

"She'd be foolish if she did. But it is just possible.

However, if that's the case, where is Yisselda now?"

Oladahn was about to speak, when there came a

low, terrifying chuckling sound from above. They

looked up at the entrance to the hold.

A mad, grinning face looked down at them. Some-

how one of the insane warriors had managed to catch

the ship. Now he prepared to leap down on them.

Hawkmoon just managed to draw his sword as the

madman attacked, sword slashing. Metal hit metal.

Oladahn drew his own blade, and D'Averc came

rushing up, but Hawkmoon shouted, "Take him

alive! We must take him alive!"

As Hawkmoon engaged the madman, D'Averc and

Oladahn resheathed their swords and fell on the war-

rior's back, grasping his arms. Twice he shook them

off, but then he went down kicking as they wound

length after length of rope around him. And then he

lay still, chuckling up at them, his eyes unseeing, his

mouth foam-flecked.

"What use is he alive?" D'Averc asked with polite

curiosity. "Why not cut his throat and have done

with him?"

"This," Hawkmoon said, "is a ring I found just

now." He held it up. "It belongs to Yisselda, Count

Brass's daughter. I want to know how these men got

it."

"Strange," D'Averc said frowning. "I believe the

girl still in the Kamarg, nursing her father."

"So Count Brass is wounded?"

D'Averc smiled. "Aye. But the Kamarg still holds

against us. I'd sought to disturb you, Duke Dorian. I

do not know how badly Count Brass is hurt, but he

still lives. And that wise man of his, Bowgentle, helps

him command his troops. The last I heard, it was stale-

mate between the Dark Empire and the Kamarg."

"And you heard nothing of Yisselda? Nothing of

her leaving the Kamarg?"

"No," said D'Averc, frowning. "But I seem to re-

member. . . As, yesa man serving in Count Brass's

army. I believe he was approached and persuaded to

try to kidnap the girl, but the attempt was unsuc-

cessful."

"How do you know?"

"Juan Zhinagathe mandisappeared. Presumably

Count Brass discovered his perfidy and slew him."

"I find it hard to believe that Zhinaga should be a

traitor. I knew the man slightlya captain of cavalry,

he was."

"Captured by us in the second battle against the

Kamarg." D'Averc smiled. "I believe he was a Ger-

man, and we had some of his family in our safekeep-

ing. ..."

"You blackmailed him!"

"He was blackmailed, though do not give me the

credit. I merely heard of the plan during a conference

in Londra between the various commanders who had

been summoned by King Huon to inform him of

developments in the campaigns we are waging in

Europe."

Hawkmoon's brow furrowed. "But suppose Zhin-

aga was successfulsomehow not managing to reach

your people with Yisselda, being stopped on the way

by the Mad God's men...."

D'Averc shook his head. "They would never range

as far as southern France. We should have heard of

them if they had."

"Then what is the explanation?"

"Let us ask this gentleman," D'Averc suggested,

prodding at the madman, whose chuckles had died

down now so that they were almost inaudible.

"Let us hope we can get sense from him," Oladahn

said dubiously.

"Would pain do the trick, do you thing?" D'Averc

asked.

"I doubt it," Hawkmoon said. "They know no

fear. We must try another method." He looked in

disgust at the madman. "We'll leave him for a while

and hope he calms a little."

They went up on deck, closing the hatch cover.

The sun was beginning to set, and the coastline of

Crimia was now in sightblack crags sharp against

the purple sky. The water was calm and dappled with

the fading sunlight, and the wind blew steadily north-

ward.

"I'd best correct our course," D'Averc suggested.

"We seem to be sailing a little too far to the north."

He moved along the deck to unbind the wheel and

spin it several points south.

Hawkmoon nodded absently, watching D'Averc,

his great mask flung back from his head, expertly con-

trolling the course of the ship.

"We'll have to anchor offshore tonight," Oladahn

said, "and sail in in the morning."

Hawkmoon did not reply. His head was full of un-

answered questions. The exertions of the past twenty-

four hours had brought him close to exhaustion, and

the fear in his mind threatened to drive him to a mad-

ness fully as dreadful as that of the man in the hold.

Later that night, by the light of lamps suspended

from the ceiling, they studied the sleeping face of the

man they had captured. The lamps swung as the ship

rocked at anchor, casting shifting shadows on the sides

of the hold and over the great piles of booty heaped

everywhere. A rat chittered, but the men ignored the

sound. They had all slept a little and felt more relaxed.

Hawkmoon knelt down beside the bound man and

touched his face. Instantly the eyes opened, staring

around dully, no longer mad. They even seemed a

little puzzled.

"What is your name?" Hawkmoon asked.

"Coryanthum of Kerchwho are you? Where am

I?"

"You should know," Oladahn said. "On board your

own ship. Do you not remember? You and your fel-

lows attacked our vessel. There was a fight. We es-

caped from you, and you swam after us and tried to

kill us."

"I remember setting sail," Coryanthum said, his

voice bewildered, "but nothing else." Then he tried

to struggle up. "Why am I bound?"

"Because you are dangerous," D'Averc said lightly.

"You are mad."

Coryanthum laughed, a purely natural laugh. "I,

-mad? Nonsense!"

The three looked at one another, puzzled. It was

true that the man seemed to have no hint of madness

about him now.

Understanding began to dawn on Hawkmoon's

face. "What is the very last thing you remember?"

"The captain addressing us."

"What did he say?"

"That we were to take part in a ceremonydrink-

ing a special drink. . . . Nothing much more." Cory-

anthum frowned. "We drank the drink...."

"Describe your sail," Hawkmoon said.

"Our sail? Why?"

"Is there anything special about it?"

"Not that I remember. It's canvasa dark blue.

That's all."

"You are a merchant seaman?" Hawkmoon asked.

"Aye."

"And this is your first voyage on this ship?"

"Aye."

"When did you sign on?"

Coryanthum looked impatient. "Last night, my

friendon the Day of the Horse by Kerch reckon-

ing."

"And in universal reckoning?"

The sailor wrinkled his brow. "Ohthe eleventh

of the third month."

"Three months ago," said D'Averc.

"Eh?" Coryanthum peered through the gloom at

the Frenchman. "Three months? What d'you mean?"

"You were drugged," Hawkmoon explained.

"Drugged and then used to commit the foulest acts

of piracy ever heard of. Do you know anything of

the Cult of the Mad God?"

"A little. I heard that it is situated somewhere in

Ukrania and that its adherents have been venturing

out latelyeven onto the high seas."

"Did you know that your sail now bears the sign

of the Mad God? That a few hours ago, you raved

and giggled in mad bloodlust? Look at your body.

. . ." Hawkmoon bent down to cut the bonds. "Feel

your neck."

Coryanthum of Kerch stood up slowly, wondering

at his own nakedness, his fingers going slowly to his

neck and touching the collar there. "II don't under-

stand. Is this a trick?"

"An evil trick, and one we did not commit," Ola-

dahn said. "You were drugged until you went insane,

then ordered to kill and collect all the loot you could.

Doubtless your 'merchant captain' was the only man

who knew what would happen to you, and it's almost

certain he's not aboard now. Do you remember any-

thing? Any instructions about where you should go?"

"None."

"Without doubt the captain meant to rejoin the

ship later and guide it to whatever port he uses,"

D'Averc said. "Maybe there is a ship in regular con-

tact with the others, if they are all full of such fools

as this one."

"There must be a large supply of the drug some-

where aboard," Oladahn said. "Doubtless they fed

off it regularly. It was only because we bound this

fellow that he did not get the chance to replenish

himself."

"How do you feel?" Hawkmoon asked the sailor.

"Weakdrained of all life and feeling."

"Understandable," said Oladahn. "It's sure that

drug kills you in the end. A monstrous plan! Take

innocent men, feed them a drug that turns them mad

and ultimately destroys them, use them to murder

and loot, then collect the proceeds. I've heard of

nothing like it before. I'd thought the Cult of the

Mad God to be comprised of honest fanatics, but it

seems a cooler intelligence controls it."

"On the seas, at any rate," Hawkmoon said. "How-

ever, I'd like to find the man responsible for all this.

He alone may know where Yisselda is."

"First, I'd suggest we take up the sail," D'Averc

said. "We'll drift into the harbor on the tide. Our

reception would not be pleasant if they saw our sail.

Also, we can make use of this treasure. Why, we are

rich men!"

"You are still my prisoner, D'Averc," Hawkmoon

reminded him. "But it is true we could dispose of

some of the treasure, since the poor souls who owned

it are all dead now, and give the rest into the safekeep-

ing of some honest man, to compensate those who

have lost relatives and fortunes at the hands of the

mad sailors."

"Then what?" asked Oladahn.

"Then we set sail againand wait for this ship's

master to seek her out."

"Can we be sure he will? What if he hears of our

visit to Simferopol?" Oladahn asked.

Hawkmoon smiled grimly. "Then doubtless he will

still wish to seek us out."

Chapter Eight

MAD GOD'S MAN

AND So THE loot was sold in Simferopol, some of it

used to provision the craft and buy new equipment

and horses, and the rest given into the safekeeping of

a merchant whom all recommended as the most honest

in the whole of Crimia. Not much behind the cap-

tured ship, Smiling Girl limped in, and Hawkmoon

hastily bought the captain's silence regarding the na-

ture of the black-sailed ship. He recovered his posses-

sions, including the saddlebag containing Rinal's gift,

and, with Oladahn and D'Averc, reboarded the ship,

sailing on the evening tide. They left Coryanthum

with the merchant to recover.

For more than a week the black ship drifted, usually

becalmed, for the wind had dropped to almost noth-

ing. By Hawkmoon's reckoning they were drifting

close to the channel that separated the Black Sea from

the Azov Sea, near to Kerch, where Coryanthum had

been recruited.

D'Averc lounged in a hammock he had hung for

himself amidships, occasionally coughing theatrically

and remarking on his boredom. Oladahn sat often in

the crownest, scanning the sea, while Hawkmoon

paced the decks, beginning to wonder if his plan had

had any substance to it other than his need to know

what had become of Yisselda. He was even beginning

to doubt that the ring had been hers, deciding that

perhaps several such rings had been made in the Ka-

marg over the years.

Then, one morning, a sail appeared on the horizon,

coming from the northwest. Oladahn saw it first and

called to Hawkmoon to come on deck. Hawkmoon

rushed up and peered ahead. It might be the ship they

awaited.

"Get below," he called. "Everybody get below."

Oladahn scrambled down the rigging, while D'Av-

erc, suddenly active, swung out of his hammock and

strolled to the ladder that led belowdecks. They met

in the darkness of the central hold and waited. . . .

An hour seemed to pass before they heard timber

bump against timber and knew that the other ship had

drawn alongside. It might still be an innocent vessel

curious about a ship drifting apparently unmanned.

Not much later Hawkmoon heard the sound of

booted feet on the deck above; a slow, measured tread

that went the length of the whole deck and back again.

Then there was silence as the man above either entered

a cabin or climbed to the bridge.

Tension grew as the sound of the footsteps came

again, this time walking directly toward the central

hold.

Hawkmoon saw a silhouette above, peering down

into the darkness where they crouched. The figure

paused, then began to descend the ladder. As he did

so, Hawkmoon crept forward.

When the newcomer had reached the bottom,

Hawkmoon sprang, his arm encircling the man's

throat. He was a giant, more than six and a half feet

tall, with a huge black bushy beard and plaited hair,

wearing a brass breastplate over his shirt of black silk.

He growled in surprise and swung around, carrying

Hawkmoon with him. The giant was incredibly

strong. His huge fingers went up to Hawkmoon's arm

and began to prise it loose.

"Quickhelp me hold him," Hawkmoon cried, and

his friends rushed forward to fling themselves on the

giant and bear him down.

D'Averc drew his sword. Wearing his boar mask

and the metal finery of Granbretan, he looked danger-

ous and terrible as he delicately placed the tip of his

sword against the giant's throat.

"Your name?" D'Averc demanded, his voice boom-

ing in his helmet.

"Captain Shagarov. Where is my crew?"

The black-bearded giant glared up at them, un-

abashed by his capture. "Where is my crew?"

"You mean the madmen you sent akilling?" Olad-

ahn said. "They are drowned, all but one, and he told

us of your evil treachery."

"Fools!" Shagarov cursed. "You are three men. Did

you think to trap mewhen I have a shipful of fighters

aboard my other ship?"

"We have disposed of one shipload, as you'll note,"

D'Averc told him with a chuckle. "Now that we are

used to the work, doubtless we can dispose of an-

other."

For a moment fear crept into Shagarov's eyes; then

his expression hardened. "I do not believe you. Those

who sailed this ship lived only to kill. How could

you ... ?"

"Well, we did," D'Averc said. He turned his great,

helmeted head toward Hawkmoon. "Shall we go on

deck and put the rest of our plan into operation?"

"A moment." Hawkmoon bent close to Shagarov.

"I want to question him. Shagarovdid your men cap-

ture a girl at any time?"

"They had orders not to kill any girl but to bring

them to me."

"Why?"

"I know notI was ordered to send girls to him

and girls I sent him." Shagarov laughed. "You'll not

keep me for long, you know. You'll all three be dead

within an hour. The men will get suspicious."

"Why didn't you bring any of them aboard with

you? Perhaps because they are not madmenbecause

even they might be disgusted by what they found?"

Shagarov shrugged. "They'll come when I yell."

"Possibly," said D'Averc. "Rise, please."

"These girls," Hawkmoon continued. "Where did

you send themand to whom?"

"Inland, of course, to my masterthe Mad God."

"So you do serve the Mad Godyou are not de-

ceiving people into believing these acts of piracy are

committed by his followers."

"AyeI serve him, though I'm no cult member. His

agents pay me well to raid the seas and send the booty

to him."

"Why this way?"

Shagarov sneered. "The cult has no sailing men.

Some one of them hit this plan to raise moneythough

I know not the purpose for the lootand approached

me." He rose to his feet, towering over them. "Come

let's go up. It will amuse me to see what you do."

D'Averc nodded to the other two, who went back

into the shadows and produced long, unlit brands,

one for each of them. D'Averc prodded at Shagarov

to follow Oladahn up the companionway.

Slowly they climbed to the deck, to emerge at last

in the sunlight and see a big, handsome three-master

anchored beside them.

The men on board the other ship understood at

once what had happened and made to move forward,

but Hawkmoon dug his sword into Shagarov's ribs

and called, "Do not move, or we will kill your cap-

tain."

"Kill meand they kill you," Shagarov rumbled.

Who gains?"

"Silence," said Hawkmoon. "Oladahn, light the

brands."

Oladahn applied flint and tinder to the first brand.

It flared into life. He lit the others off it and handed

one each to his companions.

"Now," Hawkmoon said. "This ship is covered in

oil. Once we touch our brands to it, the whole vessel

goes up in flamesand most likely your ship too. So

we advise you to make no move toward rescuing your

captain."

"So we all burn," Shagarov said. "You're as mad as

the ones you slew."

Hawkmoon shook his head. "Oladahn, ready the

skiff."

Oladahn went aft to the furthermost hatch, swing-

ing a derrick over it, hauling back the hatch cover,

and then disappearing below, taking the cable with

him.

Hawkmoon saw the men on the other ship begin to

stir and he moved the brand menacingly. The heat

from it turned his face dark red, and the flames re-

flected fiercely in his eyes.

Now Oladahn reemerged and began to work the

specially geared winch with one hand while holding

his brand with the other. Slowly something began to

appear in the hatch, something that barely cleared the

wide opening.

Shagarov grunted in surprise as he saw that it was

a large skiff in which three horses were harnessed,

looking frightened and bewildered as the were hauled

to the deck and then swung out over the sea.

Oladahn stopped his work and leaned back on the

winch, panting and sweating, but made sure to keep

the brand well away from the timber of the deck.

Shagarov scowled. "An elaborate planbut you

are still only three men. What do you intend to do

now?"

"Hang you," said Hawkmoon. "Before the eyes of

your crew. Two things motivated me in laying this

trap for you. OneI needed information. TwoI de-

termined to give you justice."

"Whose justice?" Shagarov bellowed, his eyes full

of fear. "Why involve yourselves in the affairs of

others? We did no harm to you. Whose justice?"

"Hawkmoon's justice," said the pale-faced Duke of

Koln. Caught by the rays of the sun, the sinister black

jewel in his forehead seemed to glow with life.

"Men!" Shagarov screamed across the water. "Men

rescue me. Attack them."

D'Averc called back, "If you move toward him, we

kill him and set the ship ablaze. You gain nothing. If

you'd save your own lives and your ship, you'll shove

off and leave us. Our quarrel is with Shagarov."

As they had expected, the crew commanded by the

pirate did not feel any great loyalty to him and, when

their own skins were threatened, felt no great com-

pulsion to come to his help. Yet they did not cast off

the grappling irons but waited to see what the three

men would do next.

Now Hawkmoon swung up into the crosstrees. He

carried a rope with a noose already knotted. When he

reached the top, he flung the rope over the arm so that

it hung over the water, tied it firmly, and came down

again to the deck.

Now there was silence as Shagarov slowly realized

that he could expect no assistance from his men.

Up aft, the skiff with its burden of horses and pro-

visions swung slightly in the still air, the davits creak-

ing. The brands flared and sputtered in the hands of

the three companions.

Shagarov shouted and tried to break away, but

three swords stopped him, points at his throat, chest,

and belly.

"You cannot . . ." Shagarov began, but then

trailed off as he saw the determination on the faces of

the three.

Oladahn reached out and hooked the dangling rope

with is sword, bringing it to the rail. D'Averc pushed

Shagarov forward. Hawkmoon took the noose and

widened it to place it over Shagarov's neck. Then, as

the noose settled around his neck, Shagarov bellowed

and struck out at Oladahn, who was perched on the

rail. With a shout of surprise, the little man toppled

and plunged into the water. Hawkmoon gasped and

rushed to see how Oladahn fared. Shagarov turned on

D'Averc, knocking the brand from his hand, but

D'Averc stepped back and flourished his sword under

Shagarov's nose.

The pirate captain spat in his face and leaped to

the rail, kicked out at Hawkmoon, who tried to stop

him; then the captain leaped into space.

The noose tightened, the yardarm bent, then

straightened, and Captain Shagarov's body danced

wildly up and down. His neck snapped, and he died.

D'Averc dashed for the fallen brand, but it had al-

ready ignited the oil-soaked deck. He began stamping

on the flames.

Hawkmoon rushed to fling a rope to Oladahn, who,

dripping, began to climb up the side of the ship, look-

ing none the worse for his swim.

Now the crew on the other boat began to mutter

and move about, and Hawkmoon wondered why they

did not cast off.

"Shove off!" he called, as Oladahn regained the

deck. "You cannot save your captain nowand you're

in danger from the fire!"

But they did not move.

"The fire, you fools!" Oladahn pointed to where

D'Averc was retreating from the flames, which were

now leaping high, touching the mast and superstruc-

ture.

D'Averc laughed. "Let's to our little boat."

Hawkmoon flung his own brand after D'Averc's

and turned. "But why don't they get away?"

"The treasure," said D'Averc as they lowered the

skiff to the water, the frightened horses snorting as

they sniffed the fire. "They think the treasure's still

aboard."

As soon as the skiff was afloat, they clambered

down the lines into the boat and cut themselves adrift.

Now the black ship was a mass of flame and oily

smoke. Outlined against the fire, the body of Shagarov

swung, twisting this way and that as if trying to avoid

the hellish heat.

They let loose the skiff's sail, and the breeze filled

it, bearing them away from the blazing vessel. Now,

beyond it, they could see the pirate's ship, a sail smold-

ering as sparks from the other ship caught it. Some of

the crew were busy putting it out while others were

reluctantly casting off the grappling lines. But now it

was touch and go whether the fire would spread

through their own ship.

Soon the skiff was too far away for them to see

whether the pirate ship was safe or not, and in the

other direction, land was in sight. The land of Crimia

and beyond it, Ukrania.

And somewhere in Ukrania they would find the

Mad God, his followers, and possibly Yisselda....

BOOK TWO

Now, WHILE Dorian Hawkmoon and his companions

sailed for Crimia's mountainous shore, the armies of

the Dark Empire pressed in upon the little land of the

Kamarg, ordered by Huon, the King-Emperor, to

spare no life, energy, and inspiration in the effort to

crush and utterly destroy those upstarts who dared re-

sist Granbretan. Across the Silver Bridge that spanned

thirty miles of sea came the hordes of the Dark Em-

pire, pigs and wolves, vultures and dogs, mantises and

frogs, with armor of strange design and weapons of

bright metal. And in his throne globe, curled fetus-

like in the fluid that preserved his immortality, King

Huon burned with hatred for Hawkmoon, Count

Brass, and the rest who, somehow, he could not con-

trive to manipulate as he manipulated the rest of the

world. It was as if some counterforce aided them

perhaps manipulated them as he could notand this

thought the King-Emperor could not tolerate. . . .

But much depended on those few beyond the pow-

er of King Huon's influence, those few free souls-

Hawkmoon, Oladahn, perhaps D'Averc, the mysteri-

ous Warrior in Jet and Gold, Yisselda, Count Brass,

and a handful of others. For on these the Runestaff re-

lied to work its own pattern of destiny....

The High History of the Runestaff

Chapter One

THE WAITING WARRIOR

As THEY NEARED the bleak crags that marked the

shore, Hawkmoon glanced curiously at D'Averc, who

had flung back his boar-masked helm and was staring

out to sea, a slight smile on his lips. D'Averc seemed

to sense Hawkmoon's attention and glanced at him.

"You seem puzzled, Duke Dorian," he said. "Are

you not a little pleased by the outcome of our plan?"

"Aye," Hawkmoon nodded. "But I wonder about

you, D'Averc. You joined in this venture spontane-

ously; yet there is no gain in it for you. I am sure you

felt no great interest in bringing Shagarov his deserts,

and you certainly do not share my desperation in

wanting to know Yisselda's fate. Also, you have not,

to my knowledge, made any attempt to escape."

D'Averc's smile broadened a little. "Why should I?

You do not threaten my life. In fact, you saved my

life. At this point, my fortunes seem linked closer to

yours than the Dark Empire's."

"But your loyalty is not to me and my cause."

"My loyalty, my dear Duke, as I have already ex-

plained, is to the cause most likely to further my own

ambition. I must admit I've changed my views about

the hopelessness of your causeyou seem endowed

with such monstrous good luck I am sometimes even

inclined to think you might win against the Dark Em-

pire. If that seems possible, I might well join you, and

with great enthusiasm."

"You do not bide your time, perhaps, hoping to re-

verse our roles again and capture me for your mas-

ters?"

"No denial would convince you," D'Averc smiled,

"so I will not offer you one."

The enigmatic answer set Hawkmoon to frowning

again.

As if to change the topic of conversation, D'Averc

suddenly doubled up with a coughing fit and lay

down, panting, in the boat.

Oladahn called out now from the prow. "Duke

Dorian! Lookon the beach!"

Hawkmoon peered ahead. Now, under the looming

cliffs, he could make out a narrow strip of shingle. A

horseman could be seen on the beach, motionless,

looking towards them as if he awaited them with some

particular message.

The keel of the skiff scraped the shingle of the

beach, and Hawkmoon recognized the horseman who

waited in the shadow of the cliff.

Hawkmoon sprang from the boat and approached

him. He was clad from head to foot in plate armor, his

helmeted head bowed as if in brooding thought.

"Did you know I would be here?" Hawkmoon

asked.

"It seemed that you might beach in this particular

place," replied the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "So I

waited."

"I see." Hawkmoon looked up at him, uncertain

what to do or say next. "I see...."

D'Averc and Oladahn came crunching up the beach

towards them.

"You know this gentleman?" D'Averc asked lightly.

"An old acquaintance," Hawkmoon said.

"You are Sir Huillam d'Averc," said the Warrior in

Jet and Gold sonorously. "I see you still wear the garb

of Granbretan."

"It suits my taste," D'Averc replied. "I did not hear

you introduce yourself."

The Warrior in Jet and Gold ignored D'Averc,

raising a heavy, gauntleted hand to point at Hawk-

moon. "This is the one I must speak with. You seek

your betrothed, Yisselda, Duke Dorian, and you quest

for the Mad God."

"Is Yisselda a prisoner of the Mad God?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. But you must seek

the Mad God for another reason."

"Yisselda lives? Does she live?" Hawkmoon said in-

sistently.

"She lives."

The Warrior in Jet and Gold shifted in his saddle.

"But you must destroy the Mad God before she can

be yours again. You must destroy the Mad God and

rip the Red Amulet from his throatfor the Red Am-

ulet is rightfully yours. Two things the Mad God has

stolen, and both those things are yoursthe girl and

the amulet."

"Yisselda is mine, certainlybut I know of no am-

ulet. I have never owned one."

"This is the Red Amulet, and it is yours. The Mad

God has no right to wear it, and thus it turned him

mad."

Hawkmoon smiled. "If that is the Red Amulet's

property, then the Mad God is welcome to it."

"This is not a matter for humor, Duke Dorian. The

Red Amulet has turned the Mad God mad because he

stole it from a servant of the Runestaff. But if the

Runestaff's servant wears the Red Amulet, then he is

able to derive great power transmitted from the Rune-

staff through the amulet. Only a wrongful wearer is

turned madonly the rightful wearer may regain it

once another wears it. Therefore, I could not take it

from him, nor could any man save Dorian Hawkmoon

von Koln, servant of the Runestaff."

"Again you call me servant of the Runestaff; yet I

know of no duties I must perform, do not even know

if this is all a fabric of imaginings and you are some

madman yourself."

"Think what you wish. However, there is no doubt,

is there, that you seek the Mad Godthat you desire

nothing greater than to find him?"

"To find Yisselda, his prisoner..."

"If you like. Well, then, I need not convince you of

your mission."

Hawkmoon frowned. "There has been a strange

series of coincidences since I embarked on the journey

from Hamadan. Barely credible."

"There are no coincidences where the Runestaff is

concerned. Sometimes the pattern is noticed, some-

times it is not." The Warrior in Jet and Gold turned

in his saddle and pointed to a winding path cut into

the cliff side. "We can ascend there. Camp and rest

above. In the morning we shall begin the journey to

the the Mad God's castle."

"You know where it lies?" Hawkmoon asked ea-

gerly, forgetting his other doubts.

"Aye."

Then another thought occurred to Hawkmoon.

"You did not . . . did not engineer Yisselda's cap-

ture? To force me to seek the Mad God?"

"Yisselda was captured by a traitor in her father's

armyJuan Zhinaga, who planned to take her to

Granbretan. But he was diverted on the way by war-

riors of the Dark Empire who wished to claim the

credit for kidnapping her. While they fought, Yis-

selda escaped and fled, joining, at length, a refugee

caravan through Italia, managing to get passage, some-

time later, on a ship sailing the Adriatic Sea, bound,

she was told, ultimately for Provence. But the ship

was a slaver, running girls to Arabia, and in the Gulf

of Sidra was attacked by a pirate vessel from Karp-

athos."

"It is a hard story to believe. What then?"

"Then the Karpathians decided to ransom her, not

knowing that the Kamarg was under siege but learn-

ing only later of the impossibility of getting money

from that quarter. They decided to take her to Istan-

bul to sell her, but arrived to find the harbor full of

Dark Empire ships. Fearing these, they sailed on into

the Black Sea, where the ship was attacked by the one

you have just burned...."

"I know the rest. That hand I found must have be-

longed to a pirate who stole Yisselda's ring. But it is a

wild tale, Warrior, and barely has the sound of truth.

Coincidence ..."

"I told youthere are no coincidences where the

Runestaff is involved. Sometimes the pattern seems

simpler than at other times."

Hawkmoon sighed. "She is unharmed?"

"Relatively."

"What do you mean?"

"Wait until you come to the Mad God's castle."

Hawkmoon tried to question the Warrior in Jet

and Gold further, but the enigmatic man remained

entirely silent. He sat on his horse, apparently deep in

thought, while Hawkmoon went to help D'Averc and

Oladahn get the nervous horses out of the boat and

unload the rest of the provisions they had brought.

Hawkmoon found his battered saddlebag still safe and

marveled at his being able to hold on to it through all

their adventures.

When they were ready, the Warrior in Jet and

Gold silently turned his horse and led the way to the

steep cliff path, beginning to climb it without pause.

The three companions, however, were forced to

dismount and follow after him at a much slower pace.

Several times both men and horses stumbled and

seemed about to fall, loose stones dropping away

beneath their feet, to hurtle to the shingle that was

now far below them. But at last they gained the top

of the cliff and looked over a hilly plain that seemed

to stretch away forever.

The Warrior in Jet and Gold pointed to the west.

"In the morning, we go that way, to the Throbbing

Bridge. Beyond that lies Ukrania, and the Mad God's

castle lies many days' journey into the interior. Be

wary, for Dark Empire troops roam thereabouts."

He watched as they made camp. D'Averc looked

up at him. "Won't you join us in our meal, sir?" he

said almost sardonically.

But the great, helmeted head remained bowed, and

both warrior and horse stood stock still, like a statue,

remaining thus all night, as if watching over them

or possibly watching them to make sure they did not

leave on their own.

Hawkmoon lay in his tent looking out at the sil-

houette of the Warrior in Jet and Gold, wondering if

the creature were in any way human, wondering if

his interest in Hawkmoon was ultimately friendly or

malign. He sighed. He wanted only to find Yisselda,

save her, and take her back to the Kamarg, there to

satisfy himself that the province still stood against the

Dark Empire. But his life was complicated by this

strange mystery of the Runestaff and some destiny

he must work out that fitted with the Runestaff's

"scheme." Yet the Runestaff was a thing, not an intel-

ligence. Or was it an intelligence? It was the greatest

power one could call upon when oath making. It was

believed to control all human history. Why, then, he

wondered, should it need "servants" if, in effect, all

men served it?

But perhaps not all men did. Perhaps there emerged

forces from time to timelike the Dark Empirethat

were opposed to the Runestaff's scheme for human

destiny. Then, perhaps, the Runestaff needed servants.

Hawkmoon became confused. His was not the head

for profundity of that sort, nor speculative philoso-

phy. Not much later he fell asleep.

Chapter Two

THE MAD GOD'S CASTLE

FOR TWO DAYS they rode until they came to the

Throbbing Bridge, which spanned a stretch of sea

that ran between two high cliffs some miles apart.

The Throbbing Bridge was an astonishing sight,

for it did not seem made of any kind of solid sub-

stance at all, but of a vast number of criss-crossed

beams of colored light that seemed somehow to have

been plaited. Gold and shining blue were there, and

bright, gleaming scarlet and green and pulsing yellow.

All the bridge throbbed like some living organ, and

below, the sea foamed on sharp rocks.

"What is it?" Hawkmoon asked the Warrior in Jet

and Gold. "Surely no natural thing?"

"An ancient artifact," said the warrior, "wrought

by a forgotten science and a forgotten race who

sprang up sometime between the fall of the Death

Rain and the rise of the Princedoms. Who they were

and how they were brought into being and died, we

do not know."

"Surely you know," D'Averc said cheerfully. "You

disappoint me. I had judged you omniscient."

The Warrior in Jet and Gold made no reply. The

light from the Throbbing Bridge was reflected on

their skins and armor, staining them a variety of hues.

The horses began to prance and became difficult to

control as they directed them closer to the great

bridge of light.

Hawkmoon's horse bucked and snorted, and he

tightened its reins, forcing it forward. At last its hooves

touched the throbbing light of the bridge and it

became calmer as it realized that the bridge would

actually bear its weight.

The Warrior in Jet and Gold was already crossing

the bridge, his whole body seeming to be ablaze with

a multicolored aura, and Hawkmoon, too, saw the

strange light creep around the body of his horse and

then immerse him in a weird radiance. Looking back

he saw D'Averc and Oladahn shining like beings from

another star as they moved slowly over the bridge of

throbbing light.

Below, faintly seen through the criss-cross of

beams, were the gray sea and the foam-encircled

rocks. And in Hawkmoon's ears there grew a hum-

ming sound that was musical and pleasant, yet seemed

to set his whole frame vibrating gently in time with

the bridge itself.

At length they were across, and Hawkmoon felt

fresh, as if he had had several days' rest. He mentioned

this to the Warrior in Jet and Gold who said, "Aye,

that's another property of the Throbbing Bridge, I'm

told."

Then they rode on, with only land now between

them and the Mad God's lair.

On the third day of their journey it had begun to

rain, a fine drizzle that chilled them and lowered their

spirits. Their horses plodded across the vast, sodden

Ukranian plains, and it seemed that there was no end

to the gray world.

On the sixth day of their journey, the Warrior in

Jet and Gold raised his head and brought his horse to

a halt, signaling for the other three to stop. He ap-

peared to be listening.

Soon Hawkmoon heard the sound toothe drum-

ming of horses' hooves. Then, breasting a slight rise

to their left, came some score of riders in sheepskin

hats and cloaks, long spears and sabers on their backs.

They seemed in a panic, and not noticing the four

onlookers, they rode past at fantastic speed, lashing

the rumps of their steeds until blood flew in the air.

"What is it?" Hawkmoon called. "What do you

flee from?"

One of the riders turned in his saddle, not lessening

his speed. "Dark Empire army!" he called, and dashed

on.

Hawkmoon frowned. "Should we continue in this

direction?" he asked the warrior. "Or should we find

another route?"

"No route is safe," replied the Warrior in Jet and

Gold. "We might just as well take this one."

Within half an hour they saw smoke in the distance.

It was thick, oily smoke that crept close to the

ground, and it stank. Hawkmoon knew what the

smoke signified but said nothing until, later, they came

to the town that was burning and saw, piled in the

square, a huge pyramid of corpses, every one naked-

men, women, children, and animals heaped indiscrim-

inately upon one another and burning.

It was this pyre of flesh that gave off the evil-

smelling smoke, and there was only one race Hawk-

moon knew of who would indulge in such an act as

this. The riders had been right, Dark Empire soldiers

were nearby. There were signs that a whole battalion

of troops had taken the town and razed it.

They skirted around the town, for there was noth-

ing they could do, and in even more sober spirits con-

tinued on their journey, wary now for any sign of

Granbretanian troops.

Oladahn, who had not witnessed so many of the

Dark Empire's atrocities, was the one most visibly

moved by the sight they had witnessed.

"Surely," he said, "ordinary mortals could not . . .

could not . . ."

"They do not regard themselves as ordinary mor-

tals," D'Averc said. "They regard themselves as demi-

gods and their rulers as gods."

"It excuses their every immoral action in their

eyes," Hawkmoon said. "And besides, they love to

wreak destruction, spread terror, torture and kill.

Just as in some beasts, like the wolverine, the urge to

kill is stronger even than the urge to live, so it is with

those of the Dark Empire. The island has bred a race

of madmen whose every thought and action is alien

to those not born on Granbretan."

The depressing drizzle continued to fall as they left

the town and its blazing pyramid behind.

"It is not far now to the Mad God's castle," said the

Warrior in Jet and Gold.

By the next morning they had come to a wide,

shallow valley and a small lake on which a gray mist

moved. Beyond the lake they saw a black, gloomy

shape, a building of rough-hewn stone that lay on the

far side of the water.

About midway between the castle and themselves,

they could see a collection of rotting hovels clustered

on the shore and a few boats drawn up nearby. Nets

had been hung out to dry, but there was no sign of

the fishers who used them.

The whole day was dark, cold, and oppressive, and

there was an ominous atmosphere about lake, village,

and castle. The three men followed reluctantly behind

the Warrior in Jet and Gold as he made his way

around the shore toward the castle.

"What of this Mad God's cult?" Oladahn whis-

pered. "How many men does he command? And are

they as ferocious as those we fought on the ship? Does

the warrior underestimate their strength or overesti-

mate our prowess?"

Hawkmoon shrugged, his only thought for Yis-

selda. He scanned the great black castle, wondering

where she was imprisoned.

As they came to the fisherfolk's village they saw

why it was so silent. Every last villager had been slain,

hacked down by swords or axes. Some of the blades

were still buried in skulls of men and women alike.

"The Dark Empire!" said Hawkmoon.

But the Warrior in Jet and Gold shook his head.

"Not their work. Not their weapons. Not their way."

"Then . . . what?" murmured Oladahn, shivering.

"The cult?"

The warrior did not answer. Instead, he reined in

his horse and dismounted, walking heavily toward the

nearest corpse. The others dismounted also, looking

warily about them. The mist from the lake curled

around them like some malign force that sought to

trap them.

The warrior pointed at the corpse. "All these were

members of the cult. Some served by fishing to pro-

vide the castle with its food. Others lived in the castle

itself. Some of these are from the castle."

"They have been fighting among themselves?"

D'Averc suggested.

"In a sense, perhaps," replied the warrior.

"How do you mean?" Hawkmoon began, but

then whirled as a chilling shriek came from behind the

hovels. All drew their weapons, standing in a hollow

circle, prepared for an attack from any side.

But when the attack did come, the nature of the

attackers caused Hawkmoon to lower his sword mo-

mentarily in astonishment.

They came running between the houses, swords

and axes raised. They were dressed in breastplates and

kilts of leather, and a ferocious light burned in their

eyes. Their lips were drawn back in bestial snarls.

Their white teeth gleamed, and foam flecked their

mouths.

But this was not what astonished Hawkmoon and

his companions. It was their sex that caught them by

surprise, for all the maniacally shrieking warriors rush-

ing at them were women of incredible beauty.

As he slowly recovered his defensive stance, Hawk-

moon desperately sought among the faces for that of

Yisselda and was relieved that he did not find it.

"So this is why the Mad God demanded women be

sent to him," D'Averc gasped. "But why?"

"He is a perverse god I understand," said the War-

rior in Jet and Gold as he brought up his blade to meet

the attack of the first warrior woman.

Though he defended himself desperately against

the blades of the mad-faced women, Hawkmoon

found it impossible to counterattack. They left many

openings for his sword, and he could have slain several,

but every time he had the opportunity to strike, he

held back. And it seemed to be the same with his com-

panions. In a moment's respite he glanced around him,

and an idea came.

"Retreat slowly," he said to his friends. "Follow

me. I've a plan to make this our victoryand a blood-

less one."

Gradually the four fell back until they were stopped

by the poles on which the stout nets of the fishermen

had been hung out to dry. Hawkmoon stepped around

the first and seized one end of the net, still battling.

Oladahn guessed his scheme and grabbed the other

end; then Hawkmoon cried, "Now!" and they flung

the thing out over the heads of the women.

The net settled over most of them, entangling them.

But some slashed free and came on.

Now D'Averc and the Warrior in Jet and Gold had

understood Hawkmoon's intention, and they, too,

flung a net to trap those who had escaped. Hawkmoon

and Oladahn hurled a third net over the group they

had originally ensnared. Eventually the women were

completely trapped in the folds of several strong nets,

and the companions were able to approach them gin-

gerly, grabbing at their weapons and gradually dis-

arming them.

Hawkmoon panted as he raised a sword and flung

it into the lake. "Perhaps the Mad God is not so insane.

Train women to fight and they'll always have a certain

momentary advantage over male soldiers. Doubtless

this was part of some larger scheme...."

"You mean his raising money by piracy was to

finance a conquering army of women?" Oladahn said,

joining him in hurling weapons into the water while

the struggles of the women subsided behind them.

"It seems likely," D'Averc agreed, watching them

work. "But why did the women kill the others?"

"That we may find out when we reach the castle,"

said the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "We-" He broke

off as part of one of the nets burst and a howling

warrior woman came rushing at them, fingers out-

stretched like claws. D'Averc seized her, encircling

her waist with his arms as she kicked and shrieked.

Oladahn stepped up, reversed his sword, and struck

her on the base of the skull with the pommel.

"Much as it offends my sense of chivalry," D'Averc

said, lowering the prone girl to the ground, "I think

that you have presented the best scheme for dealing

with these pretty murderesses," Oladahn," and he

crossed to the nets, to begin languidly and system-

atically knocking out the struggling women fighters.

"At least," he said, "we have not killed themand

they have not killed us. An excellent equilibrium."

"I wonder if they are the only ones," Hawkmoon

said broodingly.

"You are thinking of Yisselda?" Oladahn asked.

"Aye, I'm thinking of Yisselda. Come." Hawkmoon

swung into his saddle. "Let's to the Mad God's castle."

He began to gallop rapidly along the beach toward

the great black pile. The others were slower in follow-

ing, straggling behind him. First came Oladahn, then

the Warrior in Jet and Gold, and finally Huillam

d'Averc at a leisurely canter, looking for all the world

like a carefree youth out for a morning ride.

The castle came closer, and Hawkmoon slowed his

mad dash, hauling on his horse's reins and bringing it

to a skidding halt as they reached the drawbridge.

Within the castle all was quiet. A little mist curled

about its towers. The drawbridge was down, and on it

lay the corpses of the guards.

Somewhere, from the tops of one of the highest

towers, a raven squawked and flapped away over the

water of the lake.

No sun shone through those gray clouds. It was as

if no sun had ever shone here, as if no sun ever would

shine. It was as if they had left the world for some

other plane where hopelessness and death prevailed

throughout eternity.

The dark entrance to the castle courtyard gaped at

Hawkmoon.

The mist formed grotesque shapes, and there was

an oppressive silence everywhere. Hawkmoon took a

deep breath of the chill, damp air, drew his blade,

kicked at the flanks of his horse, and charged across

the drawbridge, leaping the corpses, to enter the Mad

God's lair.

Chapter Three

HAWKMOON'S DILEMMA

THE GREAT COURTYARD of the castle was clogged with

bodies. Some were of the warrior women, but most

were of men wearing the collar of the Mad God. Dried

blood caked the cobbles not occupied by corpses in

the grotesque attitudes of death.

Hawkmoon's horse snorted in fear as the stench

of decaying flesh filled its nostrils, but he urged it on,

dreading that he would see Yisselda's face among the

dead.

He dismounted, turning over stiff bodies of women,

peering at them closely, but none was Yisselda.

The Warrior in Jet and Gold entered the court-

yard, Oladahn and D'Averc behind him. "She is not

here," said the warrior. "She is alivewithin."

Hawkmoon's bleak face rose. His hand trembled as

it took the bridle of his horse. "Hashas he done

ought to her, Warrior?"

"That you must see for yourself, Duke Dorian."

The Warrior in Jet and Gold pointed at the castle's

main doorway. "Through there lies the court of the

Mad God. A short passage leads to the main hall, and

there he sits awaiting you. . . ."

"He knows of me?"

"He knows that one day the Red Amulet's rightful

wearer must arrive to claim what is his. . . ."

"I care nothing for the amulet, only for Yisselda.

Where is she, Warrior?"

"Within. She is within. Go claim both your rights

your woman and your amulet. Both are important in

the Runestaff's scheme."

Hawkmoon turned and ran for the doorway, dis-

appearing into the darkness of the castle.

The interior of the castle was incredibly chill. Cold

water dripped from the roof of the passage, and moss

grew on the walls. Blade in hand, Hawkmoon crept

along it, half-expecting an attack.

But none came. He reached a large wooden door,

stretching twenty feet above his head, and paused.

From behind the door came a strange rumbling

sound, a deep-voiced murmuring that seemed to fill the

hall beyond. Cautiously Hawkmoon pushed against

the door, and it yielded. He put his head through the

gap and peered in upon a bizarre scene.

The hall was of strangely distorted proportions. In

some parts the ceilings were very low, in others they

soared upward for fifty feet. There were no windows,

and the light came from brands stuck at random in

the walls.

In the center of the hall, on a floor on which one or

two corpses lay as they had been cut down earlier, was

a great chair of black wood, studded with inlaid

plaques of brass. In front of this, swinging from a part

of the ceiling that was relatively low, was a large cage,

such as would be used for a tame bird, save that this

was much bigger. In it, Hawkmoon saw huddled a

human figure.

Otherwise, the weird hall was deserted, and Hawk-

moon entered, creeping across the floor toward the

cage.

It was from this, he realized, that the distressed

muttering sound was coming; yet it seemed impossible,

for the noise was so great. Hawkmoon decided that

it was because the sound was amplified by the peculiar

acoustics of the hall.

He reached the cage and could see the huddled

figure only dimly, for the light was poor.

"Who are you?" Hawkmoon asked. "A prisoner

of the Mad God?"

The moaning ceased, and the figure stirred. From

it then came a deep, echoing melancholy voice. "Aye

you could say so. The unhappiest prisoner of all."

Now Hawkmoon could make out the creature

better. It had a long, stringy neck, and its body was

tall and very thin. Its head was covered in long,

straggling gray hair that was matted with filth, and it

had a pointed beard, also filthy, that jutted from its

chin for about a foot. Its nose was large and aquiline,

and its deepset eyes held the light of a melancholy

madness.

"Can I save you?" Hawkmoon said. "Can I prise

apart the bars?"

The figure shrugged. "The door of the cage is not

locked. Bars are not my prison. I have been trapped

within my groaning skull. Ah, pity me."

"Who are you?"

"I was once known as Stalnikov, of the great family

of Stalnikov."

"And the Mad God usurped you?"

"Aye. Usurped me. Aye, exactly." The prisoner

in the unlocked cage turned his huge, sad head to stare

at Hawkmoon. "Who are you?"

"I am Dorian Hawkmoon, Duke of Koln."

"A German?"

"Koln was once part of the country called Ger-

mania."

"I have a fear of Germans." Stalnikov slid back in

the cage, farther away from Hawkmoon.

"You need not fear me."

"No?" Stalnikov chuckled, and the mad sound

filled the hall. "No?" He reached into his jerkin and

pulled something forth that was attached to a thong

about his neck. The thing glowed with a deep red

light, like a huge ruby, illuminated from within, and

Hawkmoon saw that it bore the sign of the Runestaff.

"No? Then you are not the German who has come to

steal my power?"

Hawkmoon gasped. "The Red Amulet! How did

you obtain it?"

"Why," said Stalnikov, rising and grinning horribly

at Hawkmoon, "I obtained it thirty years ago from

the corpse of a warrior my retainers set upon and slew

as he rode this way." He fondled the amulet, and its

light struck Hawkmoon in the eyes so that he could

barely see. "This is the Mad God. This is the source

of my madness and my power. This is what imprisons

me!"

"You are the Mad God! Where is my Yisselda?"

"Yisselda? The girl? The new girl with the blonde

hair and the white, soft skin? Why do you ask?"

"She is mine."

"You do not want the amulet? "

"I want Yisselda."

The Mad God laughed, and his laughter filled the

hall and reverberated through every cranny of the

distorted place. "Then you shall have her, German!"

He clapped his clawlike hands, his whole body

moving like a loose-limbed puppet's, the cage swing-

ing wildly. "Yisselda, my girl! Yisselda, come forth

to serve your master!"

From the depths of one part of the hall where the

ceiling almost touched the floor, a girl emerged.

Hawkmoon saw her outlined but could not be fully

sure it was Yisselda. He sheathed his sword and moved

forward. Yes . . . the movements, the stancethey

were Yisselda's.

A smile of relief began to form on his lips as he

stretched out his arms to embrace her.

Then there came a wild animal shriek, and the girl

rushed at him, metal-taloned fingers reaching for his

eyes, face distorted with blood-lust, every part of her

body enclosed on a garment studded with outward-

jutting spikes.

"Kill him, pretty Yisselda," chuckled the Mad God.

"Kill him, my flower, and we shall reward you with

his offal."

Hawkmoon put up his hands to fend off the claws,

and the back of one of them was slashed badly. He

backed away hastily. "Yisselda, noit is your be-

trothed, Dorian. . . ."

But the mad eyes showed no sign of recognition,

and the mouth slavered as the girl slashed again with

the talons of metal. Hawkmoon leaped away, plead-

ing with his eyes that she might recognize him.

"Yisselda . . ."

The Mad God chuckled, grasping the bars of his

cage and looking on eagerly. "Slay him, my chicken.

Rip his throat."

Hawkmoon was almost weeping now as he leaped

this way and that to avoid Yisselda's gleaming talons.

He called to Stalnikov. "What power is it she obeys

that conquers her love for me?"

"She obeys the power of the Mad God, as I obey

it," Stalnikov answered. "The Red Amulet makes all

its slaves!"

"Only in the hands of an evil creature . . ."

Hawkmoon flung himself aside as Yisselda's talons

ripped at him. He scrambled up and darted toward the

cage.

"It turns all who wear it evil," Stalnikov replied,

chuckling as Yisselda's claws ripped at Hawkmoon's

sleeve. "All . . ."

"All but a servant of the Runestaff!"

The voice came from the entrance to the hall, and

it belonged to the Warrior in Jet and Gold. It was

sonorous and grave.

"Help me," said Hawkmoon.

"I cannot," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold, stand-

ing motionless, his huge blade point down on the floor

before him, his gauntleted hands resting on the

pommel.

Now Hawkmoon stumbled and felt Yisselda's claws

digging into his back. He lifted his hands to grab her

wrists and yelled in pain as the spikes sank into his

palms, but he managed to free himself of the talons

and fling her away and dash for the cage where the

Mad God gibbered in delight.

Hawkmoon leaped for the bars, kicking at Stalnikov

as he did so. The cage swung erratically and began to

spin. Yisselda danced below, trying to reach him with

her talons.

Stalnikov had withdrawn to the opposite side of the

cage, his mad eyes now full of terror, and Hawkmoon

managed to drag open the door and fling himself in,

pulling it shut behind him. Outside, Yisselda howled

in frustrated bloodlust, the light from the amulet

turning her eyes scarlet.

Now Hawkmoon wept openly as he darted a glance

at the woman he loved; then he turned his hate-filled

face on the Mad God.

Stalnikov's deep voice, still mournful, reverberated

through the hall. He fingered the amulet, directing its

light into Hawkmoon's eyes. "Back, mortal. Obey

meobey the power of the amulet. . . ."

Hawkmoon blinked, feeling suddenly weak. His

eyes became fixed on the glowing amulet, and he

paused, feeling the power of the thing engulf him.

"Now," said Stalnikov. "Now, you will deliver

yourself up to your destroyer."

But Hawkmoon rallied all his determination and

took a step forward. The Mad God's bearded, chin

dropped in astonishment. "I command you in the

name of the Red Amulet . . ."

From the doorway came the sonorous voice of the

Warrior in Jet and Gold. "He is the one whom the

amulet cannot control. The only one. He is the right-

ful wearer."

Stalnikov trembled and began to edge around the

cage as Hawkmoon, still weak, moved determinedly

on.

"Back!" screamed the Mad God. "Leave the cage!"

Below, Yisselda's taloned fingers had grasped the

bars and she was hauling her metal studded body up,

her eyes still fixed murderously on Hawkmoon's

throat.

"Back!" This time Stalnikov's voice lost some of its

force and confidence. He reached the door of the cage

and kicked it open.

Yisselda, her white teeth bared, her beautiful face

twisted in terrifying madness, had hauled herself up

now so that she clung to the outside of the cage. The

Mad God's back was toward her, the Red Amulet

directed still into Hawkmoon's eyes.

Yisselda's claw darted out, slashing at the back of

Stalnikov's head. He screamed and leaped to the floor.

Now Yisselda saw Hawkmoon again and made to

enter the cage.

Hawkmoon knew there was no time to try to

reason with his maddened betrothed. He gathered all

his strength and dived past her slashing claw, to land

on the uneven flagstones of the floor and lie there for

a moment, winded.

Painfully he picked himself up as Yisselda, too,

leaped groundward.

The Mad God had scrambled to the great seat

opposite the cage, climbing up its back to perch there,

the Red Amulet dangling from his neck, casting its

strange light again on Hawkmoon's face. Blood

streamed down his shoulders from the wound Yissel-

da's clawed hands had inflicted.

Stalnikov gibbered in terror as Hawkmoon reached

the seat and climbed up onto its arm. "I beg you, leave

me ... I'll do you no harm."

"You've done me much harm already," Hawkmoon

said grimly, drawing his blade. "Much harm. Enough

to make revenge taste very sweet, Mad God. . . ."

Stalnikov crept as high as he could. He shouted at

the girl. "Yisseldastop! Resume your former char-

acter. I command you, by the power of the Red

Amulet!"

Hawkmoon turned and saw that Yisselda had

paused, looking bemused. Her lips parted in horror as

she stared at the things on her hands, the metal spikes

that covered her body. "What has happened? What

has been done to me?"

"You were hypnotized by this monster here,"

Hawkmoon rasped, waving his sword in the cringing

Stalnikov's direction. "But I will avenge the wrongs

he has done you."

"No," Stalnikov screamed. "It is not fair!"

Yisselda burst into tears.

Stalnikov looked this way and that. "Where are

my minionswhere my warriors?"

"You made them destroy one another for your own

perverted sport," Hawkmoon told him. "And those

not slain, we captured."

"My army of women! I wanted beauty to conquer

all Ukrania. Get me back the Stalnikov inherit-

ance ..."

"That inheritance is here," said Hawkmoon, rais-

ing his sword.

Stalnikov leaped from the back of the chair and

began to run toward the door but swerved aside as he

saw that it was blocked by the Warrior in Jet and

Gold.

He scuttled into the darkness of the hall, into a

cranny where he disappeared from sight.

Hawkmoon got down from the chair and turned to

look at Yisselda, who lay in a heap on the floor weep-

ing. He went to her and gently removed the blood-

stained talons from her slim, soft fingers.

She looked up. "Oh, Dorian. How did you find

me? Oh, my love . . ."

"Thank the Runestaff," said the voice of the War-

rior in Jet and Gold.

Hawkmoon turned, laughing in relief. "You are

persistent in your claims, at least, Warrior."

The Warrior in Jet and Gold said nothing but stood

like a statue, faceless and tall, by the doorway.

Hawkmoon found the fastenings of the grim, spiked

suit and began to strip it off the girl.

"Find the Mad God," said the Warrior. "Remem-

ber, the Red Amulet is yours. It will give you power."

Hawkmoon frowned. "And turn me mad, per-

haps?"

"No, fool, it is yours by right."

Hawkmoon paused, impressed by the Warrior's

tone. Yisselda touched his hand. "I can do the rest,"

she said.

Hawkmoon hefted his sword and peered into the

darkness wherein Stalnikov, the Mad God, had dis-

appeared.

"Stalnikov!"

Somewhere in the deepest recesses of the hall a tiny

spot of red light gleamed. Hawkmoon ducked his

head and entered the alcove. He heard a sobbing

sound. It filled his ears.

Closer and closer crept Hawkmoon to the source

of the red brilliance. Greater and greater became the

sound of the strange weeping. Then at last the red

glow burned very bright, and by its light he saw the

wearer of the amulet, standing against a wall of rough-

hewn stone, a sword in his hand.

"For thirty years I have waited for you, German,"

Stalnikov said suddenly, his voice calming. "I knew

you must come to ruin my plans, to destroy my ideals,

to demolish all I have worked for. Yet I hoped to

avert the threat. Perhaps I still can."

With a great scream, he raised the sword and

swung it at Hawkmoon.

Hawkmoon blocked the blow easily, turned the

blade so that it spun from the Mad God's grasp,

brought his own sword forward so that it was pre-

sented at Stalnikov's heart.

For a moment Hawkmoon looked gravely and

broodingly at the frightened madman. The light from

the Red Amulet stained both their faces scarlet.

Stalnikov cleared his throat as if to plead; then his

shoulders sagged.

Hawkmoon drove the point of his blade into the

Mad God's heart. Then he turned on his heel and left

both corpse and Red Amulet where they lay.

Chapter Four

THE POWER OF THE AMULET

HAWKMOON DREW HIS cloak about Yisselda's naked

shoulders. The girl was shivering, sobbing with re-

action mixed with joy at seeing Hawkmoon. Nearby

stood the Warrior in Jet and Gold, still motionless.

While Hawkmoon embraced Yisselda, the warrior

began to move, his huge body crossing the hall and

entering the darkness where lay the body of Stalnikov,

the Mad God.

"Oh, Dorian, I cannot tell you the horrors I have

been through these past months. Captured by this

group and that, traveling for hundreds of miles. I do

not even know where this hellish place is. I have no

memory of recent days, save for a faint remembrance

of some nightmare where I struggled with myself

against a desire to slay you. . . ."

Hawkmoon hugged her to him. "A nightmare was

all it was. Come, we will leave. We will return to the

Kamarg and safety. Tell me, what has become of

your father and the others?"

Her eyes widened. "Did you not know? I had

thought you returned there first before coming to

seek me."

"I have heard nothing but rumors. How are Bow-

gentle, von Villach, Count Brass . . .?"

She lowered her gaze. "Von Villach was killed by

a flame-lance in a battle with Dark Empire troops on

the northern borders. Count Brass ..."

"What is it?"

"When I last saw him, my father lay on a sickbed,

and even Bowgentle's healing powers seemed incap-

able of raising him to health. It is as if he had lost all

feelingsas if he no longer wished to live. He said

the Kamarg must soon fallhe believed you dead

when you did not return in the time necessary to have

told him you were safe."

Hawkmoon's eyes blazed. "I must get back to the

Kamarg posthasteif only to give Count Brass the

will again to live. With you gone, he can barely have

sustained any kind of energy."

"If he lives at all," she said softly, not wanting to

admit the possibility.

"He must live. If the Kamarg still stands, then

Count Brass lives."

From the passage beyond the hall came the sound

of running, booted feet. Hawkmoon pushed Yisselda

behind him and again drew his great battle blade.

The door was flung open, and Oladahn stood there

panting, D'Averc not far behind.

"Dark Empire warriors," Oladahn said. "More of

them than we could fight. They must be exploring

the castle and surrounds for survivors and booty."

D'Averc pushed past the little beast-man. "I tried

to reason with themclaimed that I had the right to

command them, being of greater rank than their

leader, but"he shrugged"it seems D'Averc has no

rank in the legions of Granbretan any more. The

damned pilot of the ornithopter lived long enough

to tell a search party of my clumsiness in letting you

escape. I am as much an outlaw, now, as you. . . ."

Hawkmoon frowned. "Come in, both, and bar that

great door. It should hold them if they attack."

"Is it the only exit?" D'Averc asked, appraising the

door.

"I think so," Hawkmoon said, "but we must worry

about that score later."

From the shadows, the Warrior in Jet and Gold

reemerged. In one gloved hand the Red Amulet

dangled from its cord. The cord was stained with

blood.

The Warrior handled it gingerly, not touching the

stone itself, and stretched it out toward Hawkmoon

as D'Averc and Oladahn hurried to swing the door

shut and bar it.

"Here," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "It is

yours."

Hawkmoon recoiled. "I do not want itwill not

have it. It is an evil thing. It has caused many to die,

others to go madeven that poor creature Stalnikov

was its victim. Keep it. Find another fool enough to

wear it!"

"You must wear it," came the voice from the helm.

"Only you may wear it."

"I will not!" Hawkmoon swept out his hand to

point to Yisselda. "That thing drove this gentle girl

to become a slavering, killing beast. All those we saw

in the fisherfolk's villageall slain by the power of the

Red Amulet. All those who came against usturned

insane by its power. All those who died in the court-

yarddestroyed by the Red Amulet." He struck the

thing from the Warrior's hand. "I will not take it.

If that is what the Runestaff creates, I will have no

part of it.!"

"It is what menfools like yourselfdo with it, that

makes it corrupt in its influence," the Warrior in Jet

and Gold said, his voice still grave and impassive. "It

is your dutyas the Runestaff's chosen servantto

take the gift. It will not harm you. It will bring you

nothing but power."

"Power to destroy and turn men mad!"

"Power to do goodpower to fight the hordes of

the Dark Empire!"

Hawkmoon sneered. There came a great crash on

the door, and he knew that the warriors of Gran-

bretan had found them. "We are outnumbered," said

Hawkmoon. "Will the Red Amulet give us the power

to escape them when there is only one way out-

through yonder door?"

"It will help you," said the Warrior in Jet and

Gold, leaning down to retrieve the fallen amulet,

again picking it up by its string.

The door creaked under the pressure of the blows

from those on the other side.

"If the Red Amulet can do so much good," Hawk-

moon said, "why do you not touch it yourself?"

"It is not mine to touch. It could do to me what

it did to the miserable Stalnikov." The warrior moved

forward. "Here, take it. It is why you came here."

"It is because of Yisselda I came hereto rescue

her. I have done that."

"It is why she came here."

"So it was a trick to lure me . . .?"

"No. It was part of the pattern. But you say you

came to save her, and yet you refuse the means of

escaping with her safely from this castle. Once those

warriors break in, a score or more of fierce fighters,

they will destroy you all. And Yisselda's fate might

be worse than yours. . . ."

Now the door was splitting. Oladahn and D'Averc

backed away, swords ready, a look of quiet despera-

tion in their eyes.

"Another moment and they will be in here," said

D'Averc. "Farewell, Oladahnand you, too, Hawk-

moon. You were less boring companions than

some . . ."

Hawkmoon eyed the amulet. "I do not know . . ."

"Trust my word," said the Warrior in Jet and

Gold. "I have saved you in the past. Would I have

done so merely to destroy you now?"

"Destroy me, nobut this will put me in some evil

power. How do I know you are a messenger for the

Runestaff? I have only your word that I serve it and

not some darker cause."

"The door is breaking down!" Oladahn yelled.

"Duke Dorian, we'll need your aid! Let the warrior

escape with Yisselda if he can!"

"Quick," said the Warrior, extending the amulet

again to Hawkmoon. "Take it and save the maid, at

least."

For an instant, Hawkmoon hesitated; then he ac-

cepted the thing. It settled into his hand like a pet in

the hand of its masterbut an exceedingly powerful

pet. Its red light seemed to grow in intensity until it

appeared to flood the great, grotesquely proportioned

chamber. Hawkmoon felt the power flood into him.

His whole body became full of a great sense of well-

being. When he moved it was with great speed. His

brain seemed no longer clouded by the events of the

past day. He smiled and placed the blood-stained

thong about his neck, bent to kiss Yisselda once and

felt a delicious sensation rush through him, turned,

sword ready, to face the howling horde that had by

now all but demolished the great door.

Then the door fell inward, and there stood

crouched the panting dogs of Granbretan, tiger masks

gleaming with enameled metal and semiprecious

jewels, weapons poised to butcher the pathetic-seem-

ing little group that awaited them.

The leader stepped forward.

"So much exercise for so few. Brothers, we'll make

them pay for our efforts."

And then the killing began.

Chapter Five

THE SLAUGHTER IN THE HALL

"OH, BY THE Runestaff," murmured Hawkmoon thickly, "the power in me!"

Then he sprang forward, great battle blade howling

through the air to snap the enmetaled neck of the

leading warrior, slash backhanded at the man to his

left and send him reeling, swing around and cut

through the armor of the man to his right.

Suddenly there were blood and twisted metal every-

where. The light from the amulet spread scarlet

shadows across the masked faces of the warriors as

Hawkmoon led his comrades forward in an attack-

the last thing the Dark Empire soldiers had expected.

But the amulet's light dazzled them, and they lifted

armor-clumsy arms to shield their eyes, weapons held

defensively, bewildered by the speed with which

Hawkmoon, Oladahn, and D'Averc moved against

them. Following the other three came the Warrior in

Jet and Gold, his own huge broadsword whistling in

a circle of steel death, all his movements apparently

effortless.

There were a clattering and a shouting from the

men of Granbretan as, with Yisselda behind them at

all times, the four drove them into the hall.

Hawkmoon was attacked by some six swearing

axmen who tried to press in against him and stop him

from wielding his deadly sword, but the young Duke

of Koln kicked out at one, elbowed another aside,

and brought his blade straight down into the mask-

helmet of another splitting both helm and skull so

that brains oozed through the fissure when he'd

tugged his sword free. The sword became rapidly

blunted with so much work, until at last he was using

it more as an ax than anything else. He wrenched a

fresh sword from the hand of one of his attackers but

kept his own. With the new sword he thrust, with

the old he hacked.

"Ah," whispered Hawkmoon. "The Red Amulet

is worth its price." It swung at his neck, turning his

sweating, vengeful face into a red demon's mask.

Now the last of the warriors tried to flee for the

door, but the Warrior in Jet and Gold and D'Averc

blocked them, hacking them down as they tried to

burst past.

Somewhere, Hawkmoon caught a glimpse of Yis-

selda. Her face was buried in her hands as she refused

to witness the red ruin Hawkmoon and his friends

had created. "Oh, it is sweet to slay these carrion,"

Hawkmoon said. "Do not refuse to look, Yisselda

this is our triumph!" But the girl did not look up.

In many parts of the hall the floors were heaped

with the twisted corpses of the slaughtered. Hawk-

moon panted, seeking more to slay, but there were

none left. He dropped the borrowed blade, sheathed

his own, the battle lust leaving him completely. He

frowned down at the Red Amulet, raising it up to

regard it more closely, studying the simple motif of a

runecarved staff that had been cut from it.

"So," he murmured. "Your first help is in aiding

me to kill. I'm grateful, but I wonder, still, if you're

not a force more for evil than for good. . . ." The

light from the Runestaff flickered and began to fade.

Hawkmoon looked up at the Warrior in Jet and Gold.

"The amulet's dulledwhat means that?"

"Nothing," said the Warrior. "It draws its power

from a great distance off and cannot sustain it at all

times. It will grow bright again eventually." He

paused, cocking his head toward the passage. "I hear

more footstepsthe warriors were not the whole

force."

"Then let us go to meet them," D'Averc said with

a low bow, waving Hawkmoon before him. "After

you, my friend. You seem best equipped to be first."

"No," said the warrior. "I will go. The Amulet's

power has faded for the while. Come."

Warily they passed through the smashed door,

Hawkmoon last with Yisselda. She looked up at him

then, her eyes steady. "I am glad you killed them,"

she said, "though I hate to see death come so grace-

lessly."

"They live without grace," Hawkmoon said softly,

"and they deserve to die without grace. It is the only

way to treat those who serve the Dark Empire. Now

we must face more of them. Be brave, my love, for

we face now our greatest danger."

Ahead, the Warrior in Jet and Gold had already

engaged the first of the fresh force of fighters and was

flinging the weight of his great metal-encased body

against them so that they stumbled back in the nar-

row confines of the passage, unnerved, as much as

anything, because not one of their opponents seemed

hurt by them and because some five and twenty of

their comrades appeared to have met their death

within.

The Dark Empire soldiers broke out into the

corpse-strewn courtyard, shouting and trying to rally

themselves. All four who came against them were

covered in partly dried blood and brains and made a

terrifying sight as they entered the daylight.

The gray rain was still falling and the air was still

chill, but it revived Hawkmoon and the others, and

their recent victory had made them feel invincible.

Hawkmoon. D'Averc, and Oladahn grinned like

wolves at their foesgrinned with such complacency,

too, that the Dark Empire warriors hesitated before

attacking, though they greatly outnumbered Hawk-

moon and his companions. The Warrior in Jet and

Gold raised a pointing finger to the drawbridge. "Be-

gone," he said in deep, grave tones, "or we shall

destroy you as we destroyed your brothers."

Hawkmoon wondered if the warrior were bluffing

or if that mysterious entity honestly believed they

could beat so many without the power of the Red

Amulet to aid them.

But before he could decide, another group of war-

riors came rushing over the drawbridge. They had

retrieved weapons from the hands and bodies of

corpses, and they were enraged.

The Mad God's warrior women had escaped from

the nets.

"Show them the amulet," the Warrior in Jet and

Gold whispered to Hawkmoon. "That is what they

are used to obeying. It is that which bemused them"

in the first place, not the Mad God."

"But its light has faded," Hawkmoon protested.

"No matter. Show them the amulet."

Hawkmoon swept the Red Amulet from his neck

and held it up before the howling women.

"Stay. In the name of the Red Amulet, I command

you to attack not usbut these . . ." and he pointed

at the wavering Dark Empire warriors. "Come, I will

lead you!"

Hawkmoon sprang forward, his blunted sword

sweeping out to slash the foremost warrior and slay

him before he realized it.

The women easily outnumbered the Dark Empire

force, and they worked with a will at their destruc-

tion, so well that D'Averc called, "Let them finish

we can escape now."

Hawkmoon shrugged. "This is surely but one pack

of Dark Empire hounds. There must be many more

about, for it's not their way to spread too far from the

mass of their brothers."

"Follow me," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold.

"Time, I think, to unloose the Mad God's beasts...."

Chapter Six

THE MAD GOD'S BEASTS

THE WARRIOR in Jet and Gold led them to a section of

the Courtyard where a pair of great iron trapdoors had

been let into the cobblestones. They were forced to

drag aside corpses before they could grasp the huge

brass rings and heave the doors back. The doors

clanged on the stones to reveal a long stone ramp that

led down into gloom.

From within came a warm smell that was at once

familiar and unfamiliar to Hawkmoon and made him

hesitate at the top of the ramp, for he was sure that

the scent meant danger.

"Do not be afraid," said the warrior firmly. "Pro-

ceed. There lies your method of escaping this place."

Slowly Hawkmoon began to descend, the others

following him.

The light that came thinly from above showed him

a long room with a large object at the far end. He

could not decide what it was and was about to investi-

gate it, when the Warrior in Jet and Gold said from

behind him, "Not now. First, the beasts. They are in

their stalls."

Hawkmoon realized that the long room was in fact

some sort of stable, with stalls on either side. Now

from some of them came stirring sounds and animal

grunts, and all at once a door shuddered as a huge

bulk was flung against it,

"Not horses," said Oladahn. "Nor bullocks. To me,

Duke Dorian, they have the smell of cats."

"Aye, that's so," Hawkmoon nodded, fingering the

pommel of his sword. "Catsthat's the scent. How

can cats aid our escape?"

D'Averc had taken a brand from the wall and was

striking a flint to ignite his tinder. Shortly, the brand

flamed, and Hawkmoon saw that the object at the far

end of the stable was a vast chariot, large enough to

accommodate more than their number. Its double

shafts had space for four animals.

"Open the stalls," said the Warrior in Jet and

Gold, "and harness the cats to the yokes."

Hawkmoon wheeled. "Harness cats to the chariot?

Certainly a whim fit for a mad godbut we are sane

mortals, Warrior. Besides, those cats are wild, by the

sound of their movements. If we open the stalls,

they're bound to fall upon us."

As if in confirmation, there came a great yowling

roar from one of the stalls, and this was taken up by

the other beasts until the stables echoed with the

bestial din and it was impossible to make oneself heard

over it.

When it had begun to subside, Hawkmoon

shrugged and stepped toward the ramp. "We'll find

horses above and take our chances with more familiar

steeds than these."

"Have you not yet learned to trust my wisdom?"

said the warrior. "Did I not speak truth about the Red

Amulet and the rest? "

"I have still to test that truth fully," Hawkmoon

said.

"Those mad women obeyed the power of the

amulet, did they not?"

"They did," Hawkmoon agreed.

The Mad God's beasts are trained, likewise, to obey

he who is master of the Red Amulet. What would I

gain, Dorian Hawkmoon, from lying to you?"

Hawkmoon shrugged. "I have grown suspicious of

all since I first encountered the Dark Empire. I do

not know if you have anything to gain or not. How-

ever"he walked towards the nearest stall and laid his

hands on the heavy wooden bar"I'm tired of bicker-

ing and will test your assurances. . . ."

As he flung off the bar, the stable door was swept

back from within by a giant paw. Then a head

emerged, larger than an oxen's, fiercer than a tiger's;

a snarling cat's head with slanting yellow eyes and

long yellow fangs. As it padded out, a deep growling

sound coming from its belly, its glaring eyes regarding

them calculatingly, they saw that its back was lined

with a row of foot-high spines of the same color and

appearance as its fangs, running down to the base of

its tail, which, unlike that of an ordinary cat, was

tipped with barbs.

"A legend come to life," gasped D'Averc, losing

his detached manner for a moment. "One of the

mutant war jaguars of Asiacommunista. An old

bestiary I saw pictured them, said that if they had

existed at all then it was a thousand years ago, that

because they were the products of some perverted

biological experiment they could not breed. . . ."

"So they cannot," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold,

"but their lifespan is all but infinite."

The huge head now swung toward Hawkmoon,

and the barbed tail swished back and forth, the eyes

fixing on the amulet at Hawkmoon's throat.

"Tell it to lie down," said the Warrior.

"Lie down!" commanded Hawkmoon, and almost

at once the beast settled to the floor, its mouth closing,

its eyes losing some of their fierceness.

Hawkmoon smiled. "I apologize, Warrior. Very

well, let's loose the other three. Oladahn, D'Averc..."

His friends went forward to take out the bars of

the remaining stalls, and Hawkmoon put his arm

around Yisselda's shoulders.

"That chariot," he said, "will bear us home, my

love." Then he remembered something. "Warrior, my

saddlebagsstill on my horse unless those dogs have

stolen them!"

"Wait here," said the Warrior, turning and begin-

ning to ascend the ramp. "I will look."

"I will look myself," Hawkmoon said. "I know

the-"

"No," said the Warrior. "I will go."

Hawkmoon felt a vague suspicion. "Why?"

"Only you, with the amulet, have the power of

controlling the Mad God's beasts. If you were not

here, they could turn on the others and destroy them."

Reluctantly, Hawkmoon stepped back and watched

the Warrior in Jet and Gold move with heavy pur-

posefulness to the top of the ramp and disappear.

Out of their stalls now prowled three more horned

cats, similar to the first. Oladahn cleared his throat

nervously. "Best remind them that it is you they

obey," he said to Hawkmoon.

"Lie down!" Hawkmoon commanded, and slowly

the beasts obeyed. He went up to the nearest and laid

a hand on its thick neck, feeling the wiry, bristling

fur, the hard muscle beneath it. The beasts were the

height of horses but considerably bulkier and infinitely

more deadly. They had not been bred to pull car-

riages, that was plain, but to kill in battle.

"Move that chariot up," he said, "and let's harness

these creatures."

D'Averc and Oladahn dragged the chariot forward.

It was of black brass and green gold and smelled of

antiquity. Only the leather of the yokes was relatively

new. They slipped the harness over the heads and

shoulders of the beasts, and the mutant jaguars hardly

moved, save for flattening their ears occasionally when

the men tightened the straps too rapidly.

When all was ready, Hawkmoon signed to Yis-

selda to enter the chariot. "We must wait for the

warrior to return," he said. "Then we may set off."

"Where is he?" D'Averc asked.

"Gone to find my gear," Hawkmoon explained.

D'Averc shrugged and lowered his great helm over

his face. "It is taking him long enough. I for one will

be glad when we leave this place behind. It stinks of

death and evil."

Oladahn pointed upward, at the same time drawing

his sword. "Is that what you smelled, D'Averc?"

At the top of the ramp stood six or seven more

Dark Empire warriors of the Order of the Weasel,

their long-snouted masks almost seeming to tremble

in anticipation of killing the men below.

"Into the chariot, quick," Hawkmoon ordered as

the weasels began to descend.

In the front of the chariot was a raised block on

which the driver could stand, and beside it, in a rack

once used for javelins, a long-handled whip. Hawk-

moon sprang onto the block, seized the whip, and

cracked it over the heads of the beasts. "Up, beauties!

Up!" The cats climbed to their feet. "And now-

forward!"

The chariot jumped forward with a great lurch as

the powerful animals dragged it forward up the ramp.

The weasel-masked warriors screamed as the gigantic

horned cats raced toward them. Some leaped from the

ramp, but most were too late and went down scream-

ing, crushed by clawed feet and iron-rimmed wheels.

Out into the gray daylight the bizarre chariot broke,

scattering more weasel warriors coming to investigate

the open trapdoors.

"Where is the warrior?" Hawkmoon cried above

the din of howling men. "Where are my saddlebags?"

But the Warrior in Jet and Gold was nowhere to

be seen, and neither could they locate Hawkmoon's

horse.

Now Dark Empire swordsmen hurled themselves

against the chariot, and Hawkmoon lashed out at them

with his whip while behind him Oladahn and D'Averc

held them back with their own blades.

"Drive through the gate!" D'Averc cried. "Hurry

at any moment they'll overwhelm us!"

"Where is the Warrior?" Hawkmoon looked wildly

about him.

"Doubtless he awaits us outside!" D'Averc shouted

desperately. "Drive, Duke Dorian, or we're doomed!"

Suddenly Hawkmoon saw his horse over the heads

of the milling warriors. It had been stripped of its

saddlebags, and he had no way of knowing who had

taken them.

-In panic he shouted again, "Where is the Warrior

in Jet and Gold? I must find him. The contents of

those saddlebags could mean life or death for the

Kamarg!"

Oladahn gripped his shoulder and said urgently,

"And if you do not drive out of here, it means our

deathsand maybe worse for Yisselda!"

Hawkmoon was nearly out of his mind with inde-

cision, but then, as Oladahn's words at last entered

his consciousness, he gave a great yell and whipped up

the beasts, sending them springing through the gate

and across the drawbridge, to gallop along the lake-

side with what seemed like all the hordes of Gran-

bretan behind them.

Moving far more rapidly than horses could move,

the Mad God's beasts dragged the bouncing chariot

over the ground and away from the dark castle and

the mist-covered lake, away from the village of hovels

and the place of corpses, into the foothills beyond the

lake, down a muddy road that led between gloomy

cliffs, and out onto the wide plains again. Where the

road petered out and the ground became soft, but the

mutant jaguars had no effort in crossing it.

"If I have a complaint," remarked D'Averc, as he

clung for dear life to the side of the chariot and was

bounced about horribly, "it is that we are moving a

trifle too rapidly. . . ."

Oladahn tried to grin through gritted teeth. He was

crouched in the bottom of the vehicle, holding Yis-

selda and trying to protect her from the worst of the

bumps.

Hawkmoon made no response. He clenched the

reins tight in his hands and did not reduce the speed

of their flight. His face was pale and his eyes blazed

with anger, for he was sure he had been duped by the

man who claimed to be his chief ally against the Dark

Empireduped by the apparently incorruptible War-

rior in Jet and Gold.

Chapter Seven

ENCOUNTER IN A TAVERN

"HAWKMOON, STOP, for the Runestaff's sake! Stop,

man! Are you possessed!" D'Averc, more troubled

than anyone had ever seen him, tugged at Hawk-

moon's sleeve as the man lashed at the panting beasts.

The chariot had been moving for hours now, had

splashed across two rivers without stopping, and was

now tearing through a forest as night fell. At any

moment it might strike a tree and kill them all. Even

the powerful horned cats were tiring, but Hawk-

moon mercilessly lashed them on.

"Hawkmoon! You are mad!"

"I am betrayed!" answered Hawkmoon. "Betrayed!

I had the salvation of the Kamarg in those saddlebags,

and the Warrior in Jet and Gold stole them. He

tricked me. Gave me a trinket with limited powers in

exchange for a machine with powers that were un-

limited for my purposes! On, beasts, on!"

"Dorian, listen to him. You will kill us all!" Yisselda

spoke tearfully. "You will kill yourselfand then how

will you aid Count Brass and the Kamarg?"

The chariot leaped into the air and came down with

a crash. No normal vehicle could have stood such a

shock, and it jarred the passengers to their bones.

"Dorian! You have gone mad. The Warrior would

not betray us. He has helped us. Perhaps he was over-

whelmed by Dark Empire menthe saddlebags stolen

from him!"

"NoI sensed some betrayal when he left the

stables. He has gonemy gift from Rinal with him."

But Hawkmoon's rage and bafflement were begin-

ning to pass, and he no longer whipped at the flanks

of the straining beasts.

Gradually the pace of the chariot slowed as the

tired beasts, no longer goaded by the whip, gave in to

their instinct to rest.

D'Averc took the reins from Hawkmoon's hands,

and the young warrior did not resist, merely sank to

the bottom of the chariot and buried his head in his

hands.

D'Averc brought the beasts to a halt, and they sank

at once to the ground, panting noisily.

Yisselda stroked Hawkmoon's hair. "Dorianall the

Kamarg needs is you to save it. I do not know what

this other thing was, but I am sure we have no use for

it. And you have the Red Amulet. That will be of

some use, surely."

It was night now, and moonlight fell through a

lattice of tree branches. D'Averc and Oladahn dis-

mounted from the chariot, rubbing their bruised

bodies, and went off to look for wood for a fire.

Hawkmoon looked up. The light from the moon

struck his pale face and the black jewel imbedded in

his forehead. He regarded Yisselda with melancholy

eyes, though his lips tried to smile. "I thank you,

Yisselda, for your faith in me, but I fear it will need

more than Dorian Hawkmoon to win the fight against

all Granbretan, and the warrior's perfidy has made

me despair the more. ..."

"There is no proof of perfidy, my dear."

"Nobut I knew instinctively that he planned to

leave us, taking the machine with him. He sensed my

knowledge, too. I do not doubt he has it and is far

away by now. I do not necessarily suspect that he

takes it for an ignoble purpose. Possibly his purpose is

of greater importance than mine, but yet I cannot

excuse his actions for that. He deceived me. He be-

trayed me."

"If he serves the Runestaff, he may know more than

you, may wish to preserve this thing, may think it

dangerous to you."

"I have no proof he serves the Runestaff. For all I

know, he may serve the Dark Empire and I am their

tool!"

"You have become oversuspicious, my love."

"I have been forced to become so," Hawkmoon

sighed. "I will be so until Granbretan is defeated or

I am destroyed." And he held her close to him, bury-

ing his weary head in her bosom, and slept that way

all night.

In the morning the sun was bright though the air

cold. Hawkmoon's gloomy spirits had departed with

the deep sleep, and they all appeared in a better mood.

All were ravenous, including the mutant beasts, whose

tongues lolled and whose eyes were greedy and fierce.

Oladahn had fashioned himself a bow and some

arrows early and had gone off into the deeper reaches

of the forest to seek game.

D'Averc coughed theatrically as he polished his

huge boarhelm with a piece of cloth he had found in

the bottom of the chariot.

"This western air does not do my weak lungs any

good," he said. "I would rather be in the east again,

perhaps in Asiacommunista, where I have heard a

noble civilization exists. Perhaps such a civilization

would appreciate my talents, elevate me to some high

estate."

"You have given up hope of any reward from the

King-Emperor?" Hawkmoon asked with a grin.

"The reward I'll get is the same he's promised you,"

D'Averc said mournfully. "If that damned pilot had

not lived . . . and then my being seen fighting with

you at the castle . . . No, friend Hawkmoon, I am

afraid my ambitions as far as Granbretan go are now

seen to be somewhat unrealistic."

Oladahn appeared, staggering under the weight of

two deer, one on each shoulder. They jumped up to

help him.

"Two with two shots," he said proudly. "And the

arrows were hastily made at that."

."We cannot eat all of one, let alone two," D'Averc

said.

"The beasts," Oladahn said. "They need feeding or

I'll warrant, Red Amulet or no Red Amulet, they'll

feed on us before the day's done."

They quartered the larger deer and flung it to the

mutant cats, who gulped the meat down swiftly,

growling softly. Then they set about making a spit on

which to roast the second animal.

When they were eating at last, Hawkmoon sighed

and smiled. "They say that good food banishes all

care," he said, "but I had not believed it until now. I

feel a new man. That is the first good meal I have eaten

in months. Fresh-killed venison eaten in the woods

ah, the pleasure of it!"

D'Averc, who was wiping his fingers fastidiously

and had apparently eaten delicately an enormous

amount of meat, said, "I admire health such as yours,

Hawkmoon. I wish I had your hearty appetite."

"And I wish I had yours," said Oladahn, laughing,

"for you've eaten enough to last you a week.

D'Averc looked at him reproachfully.

Yisselda, who was still wrapped only in Hawk-

moon's cloak, shivered a little and put down the bone

on which she had been chewing. "I wonder," said she,

"if we could seek out a town as soon as possible. There

are things I would purchase. . . ."

Hawkmoon looked embarrassed. "Of course, Yis-

selda, my dear, though it will be difficult. ... If Dark

Empire warriors are thick in these parts, it would be

better to drive on farther south and west toward the

Kamarg. Perhaps in Carpathia a town can be found.

We must be almost upon her borders now."

D'Averc pointed his thumb to the chariot and the

beasts. "We'd get a poor reception arriving at a town

in that unearthly thing," he said. "Perhaps if one of

us went into the nearest settlement. . . ? But then,

what would we use for money?"

"I have the Red Amulet," Hawkmoon said. "It

could be traded. . . ."

"Fool," said D'Averc, suddenly deadly serious and

glaring at him. "That amulet is your lifeand ours

our only protection, the only means of controlling

our beasts there. It seems to me that it is not the amu-

let you hate, but the responsibility it implies."

Hawkmoon shrugged. "Maybe. Perhaps I was a

fool to suggest it. Still, I like not the thing. I saw

what you did notI saw what it had done to a man

who had worn it thirty years."

Oladahn interrupted. "There is no need for this

dispute, friends, for I anticipated our need and while

you, with great ferocity, were finishing off our foes

in the Mad God's hall. Duke Dorian, I dug a few

eyes from the Dark Empire men ..."

"Eyes!" Hawkmoon said in revulsion, then re-

laxed and smiled as he saw Oladahn holding up a

handful of jewels he had prised from the Granbretan-

ians' masks.

"Well," said D'Averc, "we need provisions des-

perately, and the Lady Yisselda needs some clothing.

Who'll stand least chance of attracting attention if

he goes into a town when we get to Carpathia?"

Hawkmoon gave him a sardonic glance. "Why,

you, of course, Sir Huillam, without your Dark Em-

pire accessories. For I, as I am sure you would have

pointed out, have this damned black jewel to label

me, and Oladahn has his furry face. But you are still

my prisoner...."

"I am aggrieved, Duke Dorian. I thought us allies-

united against a common enemy, united by blood, by

saving each other's lives...."

"You have not saved mine, as I recall."

"Not specifically, I suppose. Still..."

"And I am not disposed to give you a handful of

jewels and set you free," Hawkmoon continued,

adding in a more somber tone, "Besides, I'm not in

a trusting mood today."

"You would have my word, Duke Dorian,"

D'Averc said lightly, though his eyes seemed to

harden slightly.

Hawkmoon frowned.

"He has proved himself our friend in several fights,"

Oladahn said softly.

Hawkmoon sighed. "Forgive me, D'Averc. Very

well, when we reach Carpathia, you will buy us what

we need."

D'Averc began to cough. "This damnable air. It

will be the death of me."

They rode on, the horned cats loping at a more

gentle pace than the previous day's but still making

faster speed than any horse. They left the great forest

by midday and by evening saw in the distance the

mountains of Carpathia at the same time as Yisselda

pointed north, indicating the tiny figures of riders

approaching them.

"They've seen us," Oladahn said, "and seem to be

planning to ride at an angle to cut us off."

Hawkmoon flicked his whip over the flanks of the

huge beasts drawing the chariot. "Faster!" he shouted,

and almost at once the chariot began to gather speed.

A little later D'Averc called above the rumble and

rattle of the wheels, "They're Dark Empire riders-

no doubt of that. Order of the Walrus if I'm not

mistaken."

"The King-Emperor must be planning a serious

invasion of Ukrania," Hawkmoon said. "There's no

other reason for so many bands of Dark Empire

warriors here. That means he has almost certainly

consolidated all conquests farther west and south."

"Save for the Kamarg, I hope," said Yisselda.

The race continued, with the horsemen gradually

drawing nearer, riding, as they were, at an angle to

the chariot's course.

Hawkmoon smiled grimly, letting the riders think

they were catching them. "Ready with your bow,

Oladahn," he said. "Here's an opportunity for target

practice."

As the horsemen, in grotesque, grinning walrus

masks of ebony and ivory, drew close, Oladahn

nocked arrow to string and let fly. A rider fell, and

a few javelins hurtled toward the chariot but dropped

short. Three more members of the Walrus Order died

from Oladahn's arrows before they were outdistanced

and the jaguars were hauling their burden into the

first foothills of the Carpathian Mountains.

Within two hours it was dark and they decided it

was safe to camp.

Three days later they contemplated the rocky side

of a mountain and knew that they would have to

abandon both beasts and chariot if they were to cross

the range at all. They would have to travel on foot;

there was no alternative.

The terrain had become increasingly difficult for

the mutant jaguars, and the mountainside ahead was

impossible for them to climb dragging the chariot.

They had tried to find a pass, had wasted two days

looking for one, but there was none.

Meanwhile, if they were pursued, their pursuers

would be almost upon them by now. There was no

doubt in their minds that Hawkmoon had been recog-

nized as the man whom the King-Emperor Huon had

sworn to destroy. Therefore, Dark Empire warriors,

interested in elevating themselves in the eyes of their

master, would be eager to seek him out.

So they began to climb, stumbling up the steep

face of the mountain, leaving the unharnessed beasts

behind them.

When they were nearing a ledge that seemed to

extend for some distance around the mountain and

offer a relatively easy path, they heard the rattle of

weapons and hooves and saw the same walrus-masked

riders who had pursued them on the plain come riding

from behind some rocks below.

"Their javelins are bound to get us at this range,"

D'Averc said grimly. "And there's no cover."

But Hawkmoon smiled thinly. "There is still one

thing," he said, and raised his voice. "At them, my

beastskill them, my cats! Obey me, in the name of

the amulet!"

The mutant cats turned their baleful eyes on the

newcomers, who were so jubilant at seeing their

victims exposed that they hardly noticed the horned

jaguars. The leader raised his javelin.

And the cats leaped.

Yisselda did not look back as the terrified screams

filled the air and the bloodcurdling snarls echoed

through the quiet mountains as the Mad God's beasts

first killed and then fed.

By the next day they had crossed the mountains

and come to a green valley with a little red town that

was very peaceful.

D'Averc looked down at the town and held out his

hand to Oladahn. "The jewels, if you please, friend

Oladahn. By the Runestaff, I feel naked in just shirt

and britches!" He took the jewels, tossed them in his

palm, winked at Hawkmoon, and set off for the

village.

They lay in the grass and watched him walk down

whistling and enter the street; then he disappeared.

They waited for four hours. Hawkmoon's face

began to grow grim, and he glanced resentfully at

Oladahn, who pursed his lips and shrugged.

And then D'Averc reappeared, but he had others

with him. With a shock, Hawkmoon realized they

were Dark Empire troops. Men of the feared Order

of the Wolf, Baron Meliadus's old order. Had they

recognized D'Averc and captured him? But noon

the contrary, D'Averc seemed quite friendly with

them. He waved, turned on his heel, and began to

walk up the hill to where they were hidden, a large

bundle on his back. Hawkmoon was puzzled, for the

wolf masks had gone back into the village, allowing

D'Averc to go free.

"He can talk, can D'Averc," grinned Oladahn. "He

must have convinced them he was an innocent

traveler. Doubtless the Dark Empire is still using the

soft approach in Carpathia."

"Perhaps," said Hawkmoon, not entirely convinced.

When D'Averc came back he flung down his

bundle and pulled it open, displaying several shirts

and a pair of britches, as well as a number of dif-

ferent foodstuffscheeses, bread, sausages, cold meat,

and the like. He handed back most of Oladahn's jewels

to him. "I purchased them relatively cheaply," he

said, then frowned as he saw Hawkmoon's expression.

"What is it, Duke Dorian? Not satisfied? I could not

get the Lady Yisselda a gown, I regret, but the

britches and shirt should fit her."

"Dark Empire men," said Hawkmoon, jerking his

thumb at the village. "You seemed very friendly with

them."

"I was worried, I'll admit," D'Averc said, "but they

seem to be cautious of violence, are in Carpathia to

tell the folk of the benefits of Dark Empire rule. Ap-

parently the King of Carpathia is entertaining one of

their nobles. The usual techniquegold before

violence. They asked me a few questions but were not

unduly suspicious. They say they're warring in Shekia,

have almost subdued that nation but for a key city or

two."

"You did not mention us?" Hawkmoon said.

"Of course not."

Half-satisfied, Hawkmoon relaxed a little.

D'Averc picked up the cloth in which he'd wrapped

his bundle. "Lookfour cloaks with hoods, such as

the holy men in these parts wear. They'll hide our

faces well enough. I heard there's a larger town about

a day's walk further south. It's a town where they

trade horses. We can get there by tomorrow and buy

steeds. Is it a good idea?"

Hawkmoon nodded slowly. "Aye. We need horses."

The town was called Zorvanemi, and it bustled with

folk of all sorts come to sell and to buy horses. Just

outside the main town were the stockyards, and here

were many kinds of horseflesh, from thoroughbreds

to plow horses.

They arrived too late in the evening to buy, and

they put up at an inn on the edge of town, close to the

stockyards, so that they could buy what they wanted

and be away early in the morning. Here and there

they saw small groups of Dark Empire soldiers, but

the soldiers paid no attention to the cowled holy men

who mingled with the crowd; there were several

deputations from different monasteries in the area,

and one more went unnoticed.

In the warmth of the inn's public room they or-

dered hot wine and food and consulted a map they

had bought, speaking softly, discussing their best route

through to southern France.

A little later the door of the inn was pushed open,

and the cold night air swept in. Over the sounds of

conversation and occasional laughter, they heard the

coarse tones of a man yelling for wine for himself and

his comrades and suggesting to the landlord that girls

should be found for them as well.

Hawkmoon glanced up and was instantly on his

guard. The men who had entered were soldiers in the

Order of the Boar, the order that D'Averc had be-

longed to. With their squat, armored bodies and heavy

helmet masks, they looked, in the half-light, exactly

like the animals they represented, as if so many boars

had learned to talk and walk on their hind legs.

The landlord was plainly nervous, clearing his

throat several times and asking them what wine they

preferred.

"Strong wine, plentiful wine," shouted the leader.

"And the same goes for the women. Where are your

women? I hope they're lovelier than your horses.

Come man, be quick. We've spent all day buying

horseflesh and helping this town's prosperitynow

you'll do us a favor."

The boar warriors were evidently here to buy steeds

for the Dark Empire troopsprobably those bent on

conquering Shekia, which lay just across the border.

Hawkmoon, Yisselda, Oladahn, and D'Averc drew

their cowls surreptitiously about their heads and sipped

at their wine without looking up.

There were three serving wenches in the public

room, as well as two men and the landlord himself. As

one passed, the boar warrior grabbed her and pressed

the snout of his mask against her cheek.

"Give an old pig a kiss, little girl," he roared.

She wriggled and tried to get free, but he held her

tight. Now there was silence everywhere else in the

tavern, and tension.

"Come outside with me," the boar leader continued.

"I'm in a rutting mood."

"Oh, no, please let me go," the girl sobbed. "I'm

to be married next week."

"Married, eh?" guffawed the warrior. "Well, let me

teach you a thing or two for you to teach your hus-

band."

The girl screamed and continued to resist. No one

else in the tavern moved.

"Come on," the warrior said hoarsely. "Outside ..."

"I won't," wept the girl. "I won't until I'm mar-

ried."

"Is that all?" The boar-masked man laughed. "Well,

thenI'll marry you if that's what you want." He

turned suddenly and glared at the four who sat in the

shadows. "You're holy men, aren't you? One of you

can marry us." And before Hawkmoon and the rest

had realized what was happening, he had grabbed

Yisselda, who sat on the outside of the bench, and

hauled her to her feet. "Marry us, holy man, or By

the Runestaff! What sort of holy man are you?"

Yisselda's cowl had fallen back, revealing her lovely

hair.

Hawkmoon stood up. There was nothing for it now

but to fight. Oladahn and D'Averc stood up.

As one, they drew the swords hidden under their

robes. As one, they launched themselves at the arm-

ored warriors, yelling for the women to flee.

The boar warriors were drunk and surprised, and

the three companions were neither. It was their only

advantage. Hawkmoon's blade slipped between breast-

plate and gorget of the leader and killed him before

he could draw his own sword, while Oladahn's swipe

to another's barely protected legs hamstrung him.

D'Averc managed to slice off the hand of one who had

stripped off his gauntlets.

Now they fought back and forth across the tavern

floor as men and women made hastily for the stairs

and doors, many to crowd to the gallery above to

watch.

Oladahn, forsaking normal swordplay in the nar-

row room, had leaped onto the back of a huge op-

ponent and, dirk in hand, was trying to stab him

through the eyeholes of his mask while the man clum-

sily tried to dislodge him, staggering about half-blind.

D'Averc was fencing with a swordsman of some

skill who was driving him back steadily toward the

stairs, while Hawkmoon was desperately defending

himself against a man with a huge ax that, every time

it missed him, chopped huge chunks out of the wood-

work.

Hawkmoon, hampered by his cloak, was trying to

get out of it and at the same time duck the blows from

the ax. He stepped to one side, tripped in the folds

of the cloak, and fell. Above the axman snorted and

raised the ax for the final blow.

Hawkmoon rolled just in time as the ax came down

and sheared through the cloth of his gown. He

leaped up as the man tugged the ax from the hard

wood of the floor and swung his sword round to

clang against the back of the axman's neck. The man

groaned and fell, dazed, to his knees. Hawkmoon

kicked back the mask, revealing a red, twisted face,

and stabbed into the gaping mouth, driving the sword

deep into the throat so that the jugular was cut and

blood shot from the helm. Hawkmoon withdrew his

blade and the helm clanged shut.

Nearby, Oladahn was struggling, half-off his man,

who had now got a grip on his arm and was tugging

him away from his neck. Hawkmoon jumped forward

and with both hands drove his sword into the man's

belly, piercing armor, leather underjerkin, and flesh.

The man screamed and crumpled to the floor, to lie

there writhing.

Then together Oladahn and Hawkmoon took

D'Averc's man from behind, both swords slashing at

him, until he, too, lay dead on the floor.

There was nothing left but to finish off the hand-

less man who lay propped against a bench, weeping

and trying to stick his hand back on.

Panting, Hawkmoon looked about the tavern room

at the carnage they had wrought. "Not a bad night's

work for holy men," he said.

D'Averc looked thoughtful. "Maybe," he said

softly, "it is time to change our disguise to a more

useful one."

"What do you mean?"

"There are enough pieces of boar armor here to

furnish all four of us, particularly since I still have

mine. I speak the secret language of the Order of the

Boar. With luck we could travel disguised as those

we fear mostas Dark Empire men. We have been

wondering how to get through the countries where

Granbretan has consolidated her gains. Wellhere's

our way."

Hawkmoon thought deeply. D'Averc's suggestion

was a wild one, but it had possibilities, particularly

since D'Averc himself knew all the rituals of the or-

der.

"Aye," said Hawkmoon. "Perhaps you're right,

D'Averc. We could then travel where the Dark Em-

pire forces are thickest and stand a chance of getting

to the Kamarg faster. Very well, we'll do it."

They began stripping the armor from the corpses.

"We can be sure of the landlord's and townspeo-

ple's silence," said D'Averc, "for they'll not want it

known that six Dark Empire warriors were killed

here."

Oladahn watched them work, nursing his twisted

arm. "A pity," he said with a sigh. "It was an exploit

that should be recorded."

Chapter Eight

THE DARK EMPIRE CAMP

"BROOD OF THE MOUNTAIN GIANTS! I'll stifle to death

before we've gone a mile!" The muffled voice of

Oladahn came from within the grotesque helmet as

he tried to tug himself free of its engulfing weight.

They sat, all four, in their room above the tavern, try-

ing on the captured armor.

Hawkmoon, too, was finding the stuff uncomfort-

able. Apart from the fact that it did not fit him prop-

erly, it made him feel distinctly claustrophobic. He

had worn something like it some time before, when

disguised in the wolf armor of Baron Meliadus's

order, but if anything, the boar armor was even heav-

ier and far less comfortable. It must be that much

worse for Yisselda. Only D'Averc was used to it and

had donned his own, to look with some relish and

amusement at their first encounter with the uniform

of his order.

"No wonder you claim ill health," Hawkmoon

told him. "I know of nothing less healthy. I'm tempted

to forget the whole plan."

"You'll become more used to it as we ride,"

D'Averc assured him. "A little chaffing, a little stuff-

iness; then you'll find you'll feel naked without it."

"I'd rather be naked," Oladahn protested, yanking

off the leering boar mask at last. It fell with a clatter

to the floor.

"Careful with it," D'Averc said, wagging a finger.

"We don't want to damage any more."

Oladahn gave the helmet an extra kick.

A day and a night later, they were riding deep into

Shekia. There was no doubt that the Dark Empire

had conquered the province, for towns and villages

were everywhere laid waste, crucified corpses hung

along every road, carrion birds were thick in the air

and even thicker on the ground where they feasted.

The night had been as light as if the sun were per-

manently on the horizon, lit by the funeral pyres of

villages, farms, towns, villas, and cities. And the black

hordes of the Island Empire of Granbretan, brands

in one hand, swords in the other, rode like demons

from hell, howling and shrieking across the broken

land.

Survivors hid, cringing from the four as they rode

in disguise through this world of terror, galloping as

fast as they could, for none suspected them. They

were just one small pack of murderers and looters

among many, and neither friend nor foe had any

suspicion of their real identities.

Now it was morning, a morning overcast with black

smoke, warmed by distant fires, a morning of ash-

covered fields and trampled crops, of broken flowers

and bloody corpses, a morning like any other morning

in a land under the heel of Granbretan.

Along the churned mud of the road, a group of

riders came toward them, swathed in great canvas

night cloaks that covered their bemasked heads as

well as their bodies. They rode powerful black horses

and were hunched in their saddles as if they had been

riding for many days.

As they drew close, Hawkmoon murmured, "Dark

Empire men for certain, and they seem to be taking

an interest in us...."

The leader pushed back his canvas cowl and re-

vealed a huge boar mask, larger and more ornate than

even D'Averc's. He reined in his black stallion, and

his men came to a halt behind him.

"Silence, all three," murmured D'Averc, leading

them up to the waiting warriors. "I'll speak."

Now from the leader of the boar warriors came

a peculiar snorting, snuffling, and whining voice that

must be speaking, thought Hawkmoon, the secret

language of the Order of the Boar.

He was surprised to hear similar sounds begin to

issue from D'Averc's throat. The conversation con-

tinued for some rime, D'Averc pointing back down

the road, the boar leader jerking his helm mask in the

other direction. Then the leader urged his horse on,

and he and his men filed past the nervous three and

continued on up the road.

"What did he want?" Hawkmoon asked.

"Wanted to know if we'd seen any livestock.

They're a foraging party of some sort, out to locate

provisions for the camp ahead."

"What camp's that?"

"A big one, he said, about four miles further on.

They're getting ready to attack one of the last cities

still standing against themBradichla. I know the

place. It had beautiful architecture."

"Then we are close to Osterland," Yisselda said,

"and beyond Osterland lies Italia, and beyond Italia,

Provence... home."

"True," said D'Averc. "Your geography is excel-

lent. But we are not home yet, and the most dangerous

part of the journey has still to be encountered."

"What shall we do about this camp," Oladahn said,

"Skirt it or try to ride through it?"

"It's a vast camp," D'Averc told him. "Our best

chance would be to go through the middle, possibly

even spend the night in it and try to learn something

of the Dark Empire's planswhether they have heard

we are nearby, for instance."

Hawkmoon's muffled voice came from the helmet.

"I am not sure it is not too dangerous," he said doubt-

fully. "Yet if we try to skirt the camp, we might

arouse suspicion. Very well, we go through it."

"Will we not have to remove our masks, Dorian?"

Yisselda asked him.

"No fear of that," D'Averc said. "The native Gran-

bretanian often sleeps in his mask, hates to reveal his

face."

Hawkmoon had noticed the weariness in Yisselda's

voice and knew that they must rest soon; it would

have to be in the Granbretanian camp.

They had expected the camp to be huge, but not as

vast as this. In the distance beyond it was the walled

city of Bradichla, its spires and facades visible even

from here.

"They are remarkably beautiful," said D'Averc

with a sigh. He shook his head. "What a pity they

must fall tomorrow. They were fools to resist this

army."

"It is of incredible size," said Oladahn. "Surely un-

necessary to defeat that town?"

"The Dark Empire aims at speed of conquest,"

Hawkmoon told him. "I have seen larger armies than

this used on smaller cities. But the camp covers a great

distance, and organization will not be perfect. I think

we can hide here."

There were canopies, tents, even huts built here and

there, cooking fires of all descriptions on which food

of all descriptions was being prepared, and corrals for

horses, bullocks, and mules. Slaves hauled great war

machines through the mud of the camp, goaded on

by men of the Order of the Ant. Banners fluttered in

the breeze, and the standards of a score of military

orders were stuck here and there in the ground. From

a distance, it seemed like some primeval concourse of

beasts as a line of wolves tramped across a rained field

or a gathering of moles (one of the engineering or-

ders) grouped about a cooking fire, while elsewhere

could be seen wasps, ravens, ferrets, rats, foxes, tigers,

boars, flies, hounds, badgers, goats, wolverines, otters,

and even a few mantises, select guards whose Grand

Constable was King Huon himself.

Hawkmoon himself recognized several of the ban-

nersthat of Adaz Promp, fat Grand Constable of the

Order of the Hound; Brenal Farnu's ornate flag,

showing him to be a Baron of Granbretan and the

Rats' Grand Constable; the fluttering standard of

Shenegar Trott, Count of Sussex. Hawkmoon guessed

that this city must be the last to fall in a sustained cam-

paign and that was why the army was so large and

attended by so many high-ranking warlords. He made

out Shenegar Trott himself, being borne in a horse

litter toward his tent, his robes covered in jewels, his

pale silver mask wrought in the parody of a human

face.

Shenegar Trott seemed like a soft-living, soft-

brained aristocrat, ruined by rich living, but Hawk-

moon had seen Shenegar Trott do battle at the Ford

of Weizna on the Rhine, had seen him deliberately

sink himself and horse under water and ride along the

river bottom, to emerge on the enemy's bank; It was

the puzzling thing about all Dark Empire noblemen.

They seemed soft, lazy, and self-indulgent; yet they

were as strong as the beasts they pretended to be and

were often braver. Shenegar Trott was also the man

who had hacked off the limb of a screaming child and

eaten a bite from it while its mother was forced to

watch.

"Well," said Hawkmoon, taking a deep breath,

"let's ride through and camp as near to the far side

as we can. I hope we'll be able to slip away in the

morning."

They rode slowly through the camp. From time to

time a boar would greet them and D'Averc would

answer for them. Eventually they came to the farthest

edge of the camp and dismounted. They had brought

the gear stolen from the men they had killed in the

tavern, and now they set it up without suspicion, for

it bore no special insignia. D'Averc watched the

others work. It would not do, he had told them, for

one of his obvious rank to be seen helping his men.

A group of engineers of the Badger Order came

tramping around with a cartload of spare axheads,

sword pommels, arrowheads, spear tips, and the like.

They also had a sharpening machine.

"Any work for us, brother boars?" they grunted,

pausing beside the little camp.

Hawkmoon boldly drew his blunted blade. "This

needs sharpening."

"Aye, and I've lost a bow and a quiver of arrows,"

Oladahn said, eyeing a batch of bows in the bottom

of the cart.

"What about your mate?" said the man in the bad-

ger mask. "He's got no sword at all." He indicated

Yisselda.

"Then give him one, fool," barked D'Averc in his

most lordly tone, and the badger hastily obeyed.

When they had been reequipped and had their wea-

pons freshly sharpened, Hawkmoon felt his confi-

dence come back. He was pleased at the coolness of

his deception.

Only Yisselda seemed downhearted. She hefted the

great sword she had been forced to strap around her

waist. "Much more weight," she said, "and I'll fall

to my knees."

"Best get inside the tent," Hawkmoon said. "There

you'll be able to take off some of the gear, at least."

D'Averc seemed unsettled, watching Hawkmoon

and Oladahn prepare a cooking fire.

"What ails you, D'Averc?" Hawkmoon asked,

looking up and peering through the eyeslits of his hel-

met. "Sit down. The food will not be long."

"I smell something wrong," D'Averc murmured.

"I am not altogether happy that we are in no danger."

"Why? Do you think the Badgers suspected us?"

"Not at all." D'Averc looked across the camp.

Evening darkened the sky, and the warriors were

beginning to settle down; there was less movement

now. On the walls of the distant city, soldiers lined

the battlements, ready to resist an army that none had

resisted to date, save for the Kamarg. "Not at all,"

D'Averc repeated, half to himself, "but I would feel

relieved if..."

"If what?"

"I think I will walk about the camp a little, see

what gossip I can hear."

"Is that wise? Besides, if we are approached by

others of the Boar Order, we'll not be able to speak

the language."

"I'll not be gone long. Get into your tents as soon

as you can."

Hawkmoon wanted to stop D'Averc, but he did

not know how to without attracting unwanted atten-

tion. He watched D'Averc stride off through the

camp.

Just then a voice said from behind them, "A nice-

looking piece of sausage you have there, brothers."

Hawkmoon turned. It was a warrior in the mask

of the Order of the Wolf.

"Aye," said Oladahn quickly. "Ayewill you have

a piece . . . brother?" He cut a slice of sausage and

handed it to the man in the wolf mask. The warrior

turned, lifted his mask, popped the food into his

mouth, lowered his mask quickly, and turned back

again.

"Thanks," he said. "I've been traveling for days on

next to nothing. Our commander drives you hard.

We just came in. Riding faster than a flying French-

man." He laughed. "All the way from Provence."

"From Provence?" Hawkmoon said involuntarily.

"Aye. Been there?"

"Once or twice. Have we won the Kamarg yet?"

"As good as. Commander thinks it's a matter of

days. They're virtually leaderless, running out of pro-

visions. Those weapons they've got have killed a mil-

lion of us, but they won't kill many more before we

ride over them!"

"What happened to Count Brass, their leader?"

"Dead, I heardor as good as. Their morale's get-

ting worse every day. By the time we get back, I

should think it'll be all over there. I'll be glad. I've

been pitched there for months. This is the first change

of scenery since we began the damned campaign.

Thanks for the sausage, brothers. Good killing to-

morrow! "

Hawkmoon watched the wolf warrior stamp away

into the night that was now lit by a thousand camp

fires. He sighed and entered the tent. "You heard

that?" he asked Yisselda.

"I heard." She had removed her helmet and greaves

and was combing her hair. "It seems my father still

lives." She spoke in an overcontrolled tone, and

Hawkmoon, even in the darkness of the tent, could

see tears in her eyes.

He took her face in his hands and said, "Do not

fear, Yisselda. A few days more and we shall be at his

side."

"If he lives that long..."

"He awaits us. He will live."

Later Hawkmoon went outside. Oladahn sat by

the dying fire, arms around his knees.

"D'Averc has been gone too long," said Oladahn.

"Aye," said Hawkmoon distantly, staring at the

faraway walls of the city. "Has he come to harm? I

wonder."

"Deserted us, more likely" Oladahn broke off as

several figures emerged from the shadows.

Hawkmoon saw, with sinking heart, that they were

boar-masked warriors. "Into your tent, quickly," he

murmured to Oladahn.

But it was too late. One of the boars was already

talking to Hawkmoon, addressing him in the guttural

secret tongue of the order. Hawkmoon nodded and

raised a hand as if acknowledging a greeting, hoping

that that was all it was, but the boar's tone became

more insistent. Hawkmoon tried to enter his tent, but

an arm restrained him.

Again the boar spoke to him. Hawkmoon coughed,

pretending illness, pointing at his throat. But then the

Board said, "I asked you, brother, if you drink with

us. Take off that mask!"

Hawkmoon knew that no member of any order

would demand of another that he remove his mask

unless he suspected him of wearing it illicitly. He

stepped back and drew his sword.

"I regret I should not like to drink with you,

brother. But I'll happily fight with you."

Oladahn sprang up beside him, his own sword

ready.

"Who are you?" growled the boar. "Why wear

the armor of another order? What sense does that

make?"

Hawkmoon flung back his helm, revealing his pale

face and the black jewel that shone there. "I am

Hawkmoon," he said simply, and leaped forward into

the mass of astonished warriors.

The pair took the lives of five of the Dark Empire

men before the noise of the fight brought others run-

ning from all over the camp. Riders galloped up. All

around him Hawkmoon was aware of shouts and the

babble of voices. His arm rose and fell in the darkness

of the press, but soon it was gripped by a dozen hands

and he felt himself borne down. A spear haft caught

him a buffet in the back of his neck, and he fell into

the mud of the field.

Dazed, he was dragged upright and hauled before

a tall, black-armored figure seated on a horse some

distance away from the main mass. His mask was

lifted back, and he peered up at the horseman.

"Ah, this is pleasant, Duke of Koln," came the deep,

musical voice from within the horseman's helm, a

voice edged with evil and with malice; a voice Hawk-

moon recognized dimly but could not believe in his

recognition.

"My long journey has not been wasted," said the

horseman, turning to his mounted companion.

"I am glad, my lord," was the reply. "I trust I am

now reinstated in the eyes of the King-Emperor?"

Hawkmoon's head jerked up to look at the other

man. His eyes blazed as he recognized the elaborate

mask-helm of D'Averc.

Thickly, Hawkmoon cried, "So you have betrayed

us? Another betrayal! Are all men traitors to Hawk-

moon's cause?" He tried to break free, to grab with

his hands at D'Averc, but the warriors held him back.

D'Averc laughed. "You are naive, Duke Dor-

ian. ..." He began to cough weakly.

"Have you got the others?" the horseman asked.

"The girl and the little beast-man?"

"Aye, your excellency," answered one of the men.

"Then bring them to my camp. I want to inspect

them all closely. This is a very satisfying day for me."

Chapter Nine

THE JOURNEY SOUTH

A STORM had begun to rumble over the camp as

Hawkmoon, Oladahn, and Yisselda were dragged

through the mud and the filth, past the bright, curious

eyes of the warriors, through the noise and confusion,

to where a great banner fluttered in the newly come

wind.

Lightning suddenly split a jagged gulf in the sky,

and thunder growled, then exploded. More lightning

came, fast on the thunder's heels, illuminating the

scene before them. Hawkmoon gasped as he recog-

nized the banner, tried to speak to Oladahn or Yis-

selda, but was then bundled into a large pavilion

where a masked man sat on a carved chair, D'Averc

standing beside him. The man in the chair wore the

mask of the Order of the Wolf. The banner had

proclaimed him Grand Constable of that order, one

of the greatest nobles in all Granbretan, First Chief-

tain of the Armies of the Dark Empire under the

King-Emperor Huon, a Baron of Kroidena man

Hawkmoon thought dead, was sure he had slain him

himself.

"Baron Meliadus!" he grunted. "You did not die

at Hamadan."

"No, I did not die, Hawkmoon, though you woun-

ded me sorely. I escaped that battlefield."

Hawkmoon smiled thinly. "Few of your men did.

We defeated yourouted you."

Meliadus turned his ornate wolf mask and spoke to

a captain who stood nearby. "Bring chains. Bring

many chains, strong and of great weight. Heap them

on these dogs and rivet them. I want no locks that

might be picked. This time I will be sure they are

brought to Granbretan."

He left his chair and descended, to peer through the

eyeslits in his mask at Hawkmoon's face. "They have

discussed you often at King Huon's Court, have de-

vised such exquisite, such elaborate, such splendid

punishments for you, traitor. Your dying will take a

year or two, and each moment will be agony of mind,

spirit, and body. All our ingenuity, Hawkmoon, we

have squandered on you."

He stepped back and reached out a black gauntlet

to cup Yisselda's hate-twisted face. She turned her

head, eyes filled with anger and despair. "And as for

youI offered you all honors to become my wife.

Now you will have no honor, but a husband I shall be

to you until I tire of you or your body breaks." The

wolf head moved slowly to regard Oladahn. "And as

for this Creature, unhuman, yet upstart enough to

walk on two legs, he shall crawl and whine like the

animal he is, be trained to behave like a proper

beast, ..."

Oladahn spat at the jeweled mask. "I'll have an ex-

cellent model in you," he said.

Meliadus whirled, cloak swirling, and limped heav-

ily back to his chair.

"I'll save all until we've presented ourselves at the

throne globe," Meliadus said, his voice slightly un-

steady. "I've been patient and will remain so for a few

more days. We move off at first light, returning to

Granbretan. But we shall take a slight detour in order

that you may witness the final destruction of the Ka-

marg. I have been there for a month, you know, and

watched its men die daily, watched the towers fall,

one by one.There are not many left. I have told them

to hold off the last assault until I return. I thought you

would like to see your homeland . . . raped." He

laughed, putting his grotesquely masked head on one

side to look at them again. "Ah! Here are the chains."

Members of the Order of the Badger were coming

in, bearing huge iron chains, a brazier, hammers, and

rivets.

Hawkmoon, Yisselda, and Oladahn struggled as the

badgers bound them, but soon they were forced down

to the floor by the weight of the iron links.

Then the red-hot rivet nails were hammered home,

and Hawkmoon knew that no human being could

possibly hope to escape such bonds.

Baron Meliadus came to look down at him when the

work was done. "We'll journey by land to the Ka-

marg and from there to Bordeaux, where a ship will be

waiting for us. I regret I cannot offer you a flying ma-

chinewe are using most of them to level the Kamarg."

Hawkmoon closed his eyes; the only gesture he

could make to display his contempt for his captor.

Bundled into an open wagon the next morning, the

three were given no food before Baron Meliadus's

heavily guarded caravan set off. From time to time

Hawkmoon caught a glimpse of his enemy, riding

near the head of the column with Sir Huillam d'Averc

by his side.

The weather was still stormy and oppressive, and a

few heavy drops of rain splashed on Hawkmoon's face

and fell into his eyes. He was so heavily bound that he

could barely shake his head to rid it of the moisture.

The wagon bumped and jerked away, and in the

distance the Dark Empire troops were marching

against the city.

It seemed to Hawkmoon that he had been betrayed

on all sides. He had trusted the Warrior in Jet and

Gold and had had his saddlebags stolen; he had trusted

D'Averc and found himself delivered into the hands

of Baron Meliadus. Now he sighed, not sure that even

Oladahn would not betray him, given the opportun-

ity....

He found himself slipping almost comfortably into

the mood that had possessed him months before after

his defeat and capture by Granbretan when he had led

an army against Baron Meliadus in Germany. His face

became frozen, his eyes dull, and he ceased to think.

Sometimes Yisselda would speak and he would

answer with an effort, having no words of comfort be-

cause he knew that there were none that would con-

vince her. Sometimes Oladahn would try to make a

cheerful comment, but the others did not reply, and

eventually he, too, lapsed into silence. Only when,

from time to time, food was pushed into their mouths

did they show any signs of life.

So the days passed as the caravan trundled south-

ward towards the Kamarg.

They had all anticipated this homecoming for

months, but now they looked forward to it without

joy. Hawkmoon knew he had failed in his chosen

mission, failed to save the Kamarg, and he was full of

self-contempt.

Soon they were passing through Italia, and Baron

Meliadus called out one day, "The Kamarg we'll

reach before a couple of nights have passed. We are

just crossing the border into France!" And he laughed.

Chapter Ten

THE FALL OF THE KAMARG

"SIT THEM UP," said Baron Meliadus, "so they can see."

On horseback, he leaned over to look into the

wagon. "Get them up straight," he told his sweating

me who were wrestling with the three bodies still clad

in armor and made heavier by the great weight of

chains about them. "They do not look well," he

added. "And I thought them such hardy spirits!"

D'Averc rode up beside Baron Meliadus, coughing,

hunched a little in his saddle. "And you're still in poor

condition, D'Averc. Did not my apothecary mix you

the medicine you asked for?"

"He did, my lord Baron," D'Averc said weakly,

"but it does me little good."

"It should have done, the mixture of herbs you had

him put in it." Meliadus returned his attention to the

three prisoners. "See, we have stopped on this hill so

that you could look at your homeland."

Hawkmoon blinked in the midday sunlight, recog-

nizing the marshlands of his beloved Kamarg stretch-

ing and shining away to the horizon.

But closer he saw the great, somber watchtowers of

the Kamarg, the strength of the Kamarg with their

strange weapons of incredible power, whose secrets

were known only to Count Brass. And camped near

them, a black mass of men, like so many million ants

ready to sweep in, were the gathered forces of the

Dark Empire.

"Oh!" sobbed Yisselda. "They can never withstand

so many!"

"An intelligent estimate, my dear,'' said Baron Mel-

iadus. "You are quite right."

He and his party had come to a rest on the slopes of

a hill that led gradually down to the plain where the

troops of Granbretan massed. Hawkmoon could see

infantry, cavalry, engineers, rank upon rank of them;

he saw war engines of enormous size, huge flame can-

non, ornithopters flapping through the skies in such

numbers that their shapes blotted out the sun as they

passed over the heads of the onlookers. All manner of

metals had been brought against the peaceful Kamarg,

brass and iron and bronze and steel, tough alloys that

could resist the bite of a flame-lance, gold and silver

and platinum and lead. Vultures marched beside frogs,

and horses beside moles; there were wolves and boars

and stags and wildcats, eagles and ravens and badgers

and weasels. Silk banners fluttered in the moist, warm

air, bright with the colors of two score of nobles from

all corners of Granbretan. There were yellows and

purples and blacks and reds, blue and greens and flash-

ing pinks, and the sun caught the jewels of a hundred

thousand eyes and made them flash, malevolent and

grim.

"Aha," laughed Baron Meliadus. "That army I

command. If Count Brass had not refused to aid us

that day, you would all be honored allies of the Dark

Empire of Granbretan. But because you resisted us

you will be punished. You thought your weapons and

your towers and the stoic bravery of your men was

enough to stand against the might of Granbretan. Not

enough, Dorian Hawkmoon, not enough! Seemy

army, raised by me to commit my vengeance. See,

Hawkmoon, and know what a fool you and the rest

were!" He flung back his head and laughed for a long

time. "Tremble, Hawkmoonand you, too, Yisselda

tremble as your fellows are trembling now within

their towers, for they know those towers must fall,

they know the Kamarg will be ashes and mud before

tomorrow's sunset. I will destroy the Kamarg if it

means sacrificing my entire army!"

And Hawkmoon and Yisselda did tremble, though

it was with grief at the threat of the destruction

foreseen by mad Baron Meliadus.

"Count Brass is dead," said Baron Meliadus, turning

his horse to ride to the head of his company, "And

now dies the Kamarg!" He waved his arm. "Forward.

Let them see the carnage!"

The wagon began to move again, bumping down

the hill road to the plain, its prisoners propped in it

with stricken faces and miserable eyes.

D'Averc continued to ride beside the wagon,

coughing ostentatiously. "The Baron's medicine's not

bad," he said at length. "It should cure the ills of all his

men." And with that enigmatic pronouncement he

urged his horse into a gallop to reach the head of the

column and ride beside his master.

Hawkmoon saw strange rays flash from the towers

of the Kamarg and strike into the gathered ranks that

came against them, leaving scars of smoking ground

where men had been. He saw the cavalry of the

Kamarg begin to move up to take its positions, a thin

line of battered Guardians, riding their horned horses,

flame-lances on their shoulders. He saw ordinary

townsfolk from the settlements, armed with swords

and axes, coming in the wake of the cavalry. But he

did not see Count Brass, he did not seen von Villach,

and he did not see the philosopher Bowgentle. The

men of the Kamarg marched leaderless to this last

battle.

He heard the faint sounds of their battle shouts,

coming over the howls and roars of the attackers, the

crack of cannon and the shriek of flame-lances; heard

the clatter of armor and the creak of metal; smelled

beast and man and weapon, marching through the

mud. And then he saw the black hordes pause as a

wall of fire rose into the air before them and scarlet

flamingoes flew over it, riders aiming flame-lances at

the clanking ornithopters.

Hawkmoon ached to be free, to have the feel of a

sword in his hand and a horse between his legs, to

rally the men of the Kamarg, who, even leaderless,

could still resist the Dark Empire, though their num-

bers were a fraction of the enemy's. He writhed in his

chains, and he cursed in his fury and frustration.

Evening came, and the battle went on. Hawkmoon

saw an ancient black tower struck by a million flames

from the Dark Empire cannon, saw it sway, topple,

and fall, crashing down to become rubble suddenly.

And the black hordes cheered.

Night fell, and the battle went on. The heat of it

reached even to the three in the wagon and brought

sweat to their faces. Around them the wolf guards sat

laughing and talking, certain of victory. Their master

had ridden his horse into the thick of his troops, the

better to see how the battle went, and they brought

out a skin of wine with long straws jutting from it so

that they could suck the stuff through their masks. As

the night grew longer, their talk and their laughter

subsided until, strangely, they all slept.

Oladahn remarked on it. "Not like the vigilant

wolves to sleep so hard. They must be confident."

Hawkmoon sighed. "Aye, but it does us no good.

These damned chains are riveted so fast that we have

no hope of escaping."

"What's this?" the voice was D'Averc's. "No longer

optimistic, Hawkmoon? I find it hard to believe!"

"Away with you, D'Averc," Hawkmoon said as the

man emerged from the darkness to stand beside the

wagon." Back to lick the boots of your master."

"I had brought this," D'Averc said in a mock-

aggrieved tone, "to see if it would serve you." He dis-

played a bulky object in his hand. "After all, it was

my medicine that drugged the guards."

Hawkmoon's eyes narrowed. "What's that in your

hand?"

"A rarity I found on the battleground. Some great

commander's I'd judge, for there are few of them to

be found these days. It's a kind of flame-lance, though

small enough to be carried in one hand.

"I've heard of them," Hawkmoon nodded. "But

what use is it to me? I'm in chains, as you see."

"Aye, I noted that. If you'd take a risk, however,

it might be that I could release you."

"Is this a new trap, D'Averc, that you and Meli-

adus have concocted between you?"

"I'm hurt, Hawkmoon. Why should you think

that?"

"Because you betrayed us into Meliadus's hands.

You must have prepared the trap well ahead, when

you spoke to those wolf warriors in that Carpathian

village. You sent them to find their master and ar-

ranged to lead us to that camp where we could be

most easily captured."

"Why, it sounds possible," agreed D'Averc.

"Though you could see it another waythe wolf war-

riors recognized me then and followed us, going later

to warn their master. I heard the rumor at the camp

that Meliadus had come to find you, decided to tell

Meliadus I had led you into this trap so that one of us

would be free at least." D'Averc paused. "How does

that sound?"

"Glib."

"Well, yes, it does sound glib. Now, Hawkmoon,

there is not much time. Shall I see if I can burn your

chains without burning you, or would you rather

keep your seats for fear of missing a development in

the battle?"

"Burn the damned chains," Hawkmoon said, "for at

least with my hands free I'll have a chance to choke

you if you lie!"

D'Averc brought the little flame-lance up and di-

rected it at an angle to Hawkmoon's fettered arms.

Then he touched a stud, and a beam of intense heat

sprang from the muzzle. Hawkmoon felt pain sear his

arm, but he gritted his teeth. The pain got worse until

he felt he must cry out, and then there was a clatter as

one of the links fell to the bottom of the wagon and he

felt some of the weight leave him. An arm was free,

his right arm. He rubbed it and almost yelled as he

touched a part where the armor had been burned

clean through.

"Hurry," murmured D'Averc. "Here, hold up an-

other length of chain. It will be easier now."

At last Hawkmoon was free of the chain, and they

set about releasing Yisselda and then Oladahn.

D'Averc was becoming noticeably more nervous by

the time they had finished.

"I have your swords here," he said, "and new masks

and horses. You must follow me. And hurry, before

Meliadus comes back. I had, to tell you the truth, ex-

pected him before now."

They crept through the darkness to where the

horses were tethered, donned the masks, strapped the

swords to their waists, and climbed into their saddles.

Then they heard other steeds galloping up the hill

road toward them, heard confused shouts and an an-

gry bellow that could only be Meliadus's.

"Quick," D'Averc hissed. "We must rideride for

the Kamarg!"

They kicked their horses into a wild gallop and be-

gan to career down the hill toward the main battlefield.

"Make way!" D'Averc screamed. "Make way! The

force must move through. Reinforcements for the

front!"

Men leaped aside for their horses as they thundered

through the thick of the camp, cursing the four fig-

ures who rode so heedlessly.

"Make way!" D'Averc yelled. "A message for the

Grand Commander!" He found time to turn his head

and call to Hawkmoon, "It bores me to sustain the

same lie!" He yelled again, "Make way! The potion

for the plague-struck!"

Behind them they heard other horses as Meliadus

and his men came in pursuit.

Ahead they could now see that the fighting still

continued, but not with the intensity it had had

earlier.

"Make way!" bellowed D'Averc. "Make way for

Baron Meliadus!"

The horses leaped knots of men, swept around war

engines, galloped through fires, drawing nearer and

nearer to the Kamarg's towers, while behind them

they could hear Meliadus yelling.

Now they reached a point where the horses gal-

loped over corpses, the fallen of Granbretan, and the

main force was now behind them.

"Get the masks off," D'Averc called. "It's our only

chance. If the Kamargians recognize you and Yisselda

in time, they'll hold their fire. If not..."

From out of the darkness came the bright beam of a

flame-lance, narrowly missing D'Averc. Behind them

other flame-lances shot their searing death, aimed

doubtless by Meliadus's men. Hawkmoon grappled

with the straps of his mask helm, managed at last to

unloose it and fling it behind him.

"Stop!" The voice was Meliadus's, gaining on them

now. "You'll perish by your own forces! Fools!"

More flame-lances had opened up from the Kamarg

side, illuminating the night with ruddy light. The

horses rode over the dead, finding it hard going.

D'Averc had his head down over his horse's neck, and

Yisselda and Oladahn were crouching low, too, but

Hawkmoon drew his sword and yelled, "Men of the

Kamarg! It is Hawkmoon! Hawkmoon has returned!"

The flame-lances did not cease, but they were get-

ing closer and closer to one of the towers now.

D'Averc straightened in his saddle.

"Kamargians! I bring you Hawkmoon, who will"

and fire splashed him. He flung up his arms, cried out,

and began to topple from his saddle. Hawkmoon

hastily drew alongside, steadying the body. The armor

was red-hot, melted in places, but D'Averc seemed not

wholly dead. A faint laugh came from the blistered

lips. "A piece of serious misjudgement, linking my for-

tunes with yours, Hawkmoon...."

The other two came to a halt, their horses stamping

in confusion. Behind them, Baron Meliadus and his

men came closer.

"Take the reins of his horse, Oladahn," Hawkmoon

said. "I'll steady him in his saddle, and we'll see if we

can get closer to the tower."

Flame shot out again, this time from the Granbret-

anian side. "Stop, Hawkmoon!"

Hawkmoon ignored the command and moved on,

slowly picking his way through the mud and death all

around him, trying to support D'Averc.

Hawkmoon shouted as a great beam of light sprang

from the tower, "Men of the Kamarg! It is Hawk-

moonand Yisselda, Count Brass's daughter."

The light faded. Closer now came the horses of

Meliadus. Yisselda, too, was swaying in her saddle

from exhaustion. Hawkmoon prepared to meet the

wolves of Meliadus.

Then, bursting down an incline, came about a score

of armored Guardians, the white, horned horses of the

Kamarg under them, and they surrounded the four.

One of the Guardians peered closely into Hawk-

moon's face, then his eyes lit with joy. "It is my

lord Hawkmoon! It is Yisselda! Ahnow our luck

will change!"

Some distance away Meliadus and his men had

paused when they saw the Kamargians. Then they

turned and rode into the darkness.

They came to Castle Brass in the morning, when the

pale sunlight fell on the lagoons and wild bulls

looked up from where they drank and watched them

pass. A wind stirred the reeds, making them roll like

the sea, and the hill overlooking the town was rich

with grapes and other fruits just beginning to ripen.

On top of the hill stood Castle Brass, solid and old and

seemingly unchanged by the wars that had raged on

the borders of the province it protected.

They road up the curling white road to the castle,

crossed into the courtyard, where joyous stewards

rushed out to take their horses, then entered the hall,

which was full of Count Brass's trophies. It was

strangely cold and silent, and a single figure stood by

the great fireplace waiting for them. Although he

smiled, his eyes were fearful and his face had aged

much since Hawkmoon had last seen himwise Sir

Bowgentle, the philosopher-poet.

Bowgentle embraced Yisselda, then gripped Hawk-

moon's hand.

"How is Count Brass?" Hawkmoon asked.

"Physically well, but he has lost the will to live."

Bowgentle signed for stewards to help D'Averc.

"Take him to the room in the northern towerthe

sickroom. I'll attend to him as soon as I can. Come," he

said. "See for yourselves...."

They left Oladahn to stay with D'Averc and

climbed the old stone staircase to the landing where

Count Brass's apartments still were. Bowgentle opened

a door and they entered the bedroom.

There was a simple soldier's bed, big and square,

with white sheets and plain pillows. On the pillows

lay a great head that seemed carved from metal. The

red hair had a little more gray, the bronzed face was a

trifle paler, but the red mustache was the same. And

the heavy brow that hung like a ledge of rock over

the cave of the deepset golden brown eyes, that, too,

was the same. But the eyes stared at the ceiling with-

out blinking, and the lips did not move, were set in a

hard line.

"Count Brass," murmured Bowgentle. "Look."

But the eyes remained fixed. Hawkmoon had to

come forward, peer straight into the face, and make

Yisselda do likewise. "Count Brass, your daughter,

Yisselda, has returned, and Dorian Hawkmoon, too."

From the lips now came a rumbling murmur, "More

illusions. I'd thought the fever past, Bowgentle."

"So it is, my lordthese are not phantoms."

The eyes moved now to look at them. "Am I dead

at last and joined with you, my children?"

"You are on earth, Count Brass!" Hawkmoon said

Yisselda bent and kissed her father on the lips.

"There, fatheran earthly kiss."

Gradually the hard line of the lips began to melt,

until a smile was there, then a wide grin. Then the

body heaved under the clothes, and suddenly Count

Brass was sitting upright. "Ah! It's true. I'd lost hope!

Fool that I am, I'd lost hope!" He laughed now, sud-

denly alive with vitality.

Bowgentle was astonished. "Count BrassI thought

you but a pace from the door of death!"

"So I was, Bowgentlebut I've leaped back from

it, as you see. Leaped a long way. How goes the

siege, Hawkmoon?'

"Badly for us, Count Brass, but better, I'll wager,

now we three are together again!"

"Aye. Bowgentle, have my armor brought. And

where is my sword?"

"Count Brassyou must still be weak. . . ."

"Then bring me fooda great deal of foodand

I'll fortify myself while we talk." And Count Brass

sprang from his bed to embrace his daughter and her

betrothed.

In the hall they ate while Dorian Hawkmoon told

Count Brass all that had befallen him since leaving the

castle so many months before. Count Brass, in turn,

told of his tribulations with, it had seemed, the entire

might of the Dark Empire to contend with. He told

of von Villach's last battle and how the old man had

died bravely, at the cost of a score of Dark Empire

lives, how he, himself, had been wounded, how he

had learned of Yisselda's disappearance and lost the

will to live.

Oladahn came down then and was introduced. He

said that D'Averc was badly hurt but that Bowgentle

thought he would recover.

On the whole it was a cheerful homecoming, but

marred by the knowledge that on the borders the

Guardians were fighting for their lives, almost cer-

tainly fighting a losing battle.

Count Brass had by this time donned his armor of

brass and strapped on his huge broadsword. He tow-

ered above the others as he stood up and said, "Come,

Hawkmoon, Sir Oladahn, we must to the battlefield

and lead our men to victory."

Bowgentle sighed. "Two hours ago I thought you

all but deadnow you ride to battle. You are not well

enough, sir."

"My sickness was of the spirit, not the flesh, and

that's cured now," roared Count Brass. "Horses! Tell

them to bring our horses, Sir Bowgentle!"

Though himself weary, Hawkmoon found renewed

vigor as he followed the old man from the castle. He

blew a kiss to Yisselda, and then they were in the

courtyard, mounting the horses that would bear them

to the battlefield.

They rode hard, the three of them, through the

secret pathways of the marshlands, with huge clouds

of giant flamingoes passing through the air over their

heads, herds of wild horned horses galloping away

from them. Count Brass waved a gloved hand. "Such

a land is worth defending with all we have. Such

peace is worth protecting."

Soon they heard the sounds of warfare and came to

where the Dark Empire drove against the towers.

They reined in when they saw the worst.

Count Brass spoke in a stricken whisper. "Impossi-

ble," he said.

But it was true.

The towers had fallen. Each lay broken, a pile of

smoking masonry. The survivors were even now

being pressed back, though they battled bravely.

"This is the fall of the Kamarg," said Count Brass

in the voice of an old man.

Chapter Eleven

RETURN OF THE WARRIOR

Now ONE OF the captains saw them and came riding

up. His armor was in tatters and his sword broken, but

there was joy in his face. "Count Brass! At last! Come

sir, we must rally the mendrive the Dark Empire

dogs back!"

Hawkmoon saw Count Brass force himself to smile,

draw his great broadsword, and say, "Aye, Captain.

See if you can find a herald or two to tell all that

Count Brass is back!"

A cheer went up from the hard-pressed Kamar-

gians as Count Brass and Hawkmoon appeared, and

they held their ground, even drove the Granbretan-

ians back in places. Count Brass, with Hawkmoon and

Oladahn following, rode into the thick of his men,

once again the invincible man of metal. "Aside, lads!"

he called. "Aside and let me get at the enemy!"

Count Brass grabbed his own battered standard

from a nearby rider, and with this balanced in the

crook of his arm, his sword waving, he drove forward

at the mass of beast masks ahead.

Hawkmoon rode up beside him, and they made a

menacing, almost supernatural pair, the one in his

flaming armor of brass and the other with the black

jewel imbedded in his forehead, their swords rising

and falling on the heads of the tightly packed Gran-

bretan infantry. And when another figure joined

them, a stocky man with fur covering his face and a

flashing saber striking here and there like lightning,

they seemed a trio out of mythology, unnerving the

beast warriors of Granbretan so that they fell back.

Hawkmoon searched about for Meliadus, swearing

that he would certainly kill him this time, but he

could not see him for the moment.

Gauntleted hands tried to drag him from his saddle,

but his sword slipped through eyeholes, split helms,

and sliced heads from their shoulders.

The day wore, and the fighting continued without

respite. Hawkmoon swayed in his saddle now, battle-

weary and half-dazed with pain from a dozen minor

cuts and a great many bruises. His horse was killed,

but the weight of men surrounding him was so great

that he sat it for half an hour before he realized it was

dead. Then he sprang off it and continued fighting

on foot.

He knew that no matter how many he and the

others killed, they were outnumbered and ill-equip-

ped. Gradually they were being driven farther and

farther back.

"Ah," he murmured to himself, "if only we had a

few hundred fresh troops, we might win the day. By

the Runestaff, we need aid!"

Suddenly a strange electric sensation ran through

his body, and he gasped, recognizing what was hap-

pening to him, realizing that he had unconsciously in-

voked the Runestaff. The Red Amulet, which now

glowed at his neck, spreading red light on the armor

of his enemies, was now transmitting power into his

body. He laughed and began to hew around him with

fantastic strength, cutting back the circle of warriors

attacking him. His sword snapped, but he grabbed a

lance from a horseman riding at him, dragged its

owner from his saddle, and, swinging the lance like a

sword, jumped onto the horse and resumed the

attack.

"Hawkmoon! Hawkmoon!" he cried using the old

battlecry of his ancestors. "HaiOladahnCount

Brass!" He gouged his way through the beast-masked

warriors between himself and his friends. Count

Brass's standard still swayed in its owner's hand.

"Drive them back!" Hawkmoon yelled. "Drive

them back to our borders!"

Then Hawkmoon was everywhere, a whirling

bringer of death. He raced through the ranks of

Granbretan, and where he passed there were only

corpses. A great muttering went up from the enemy

then, and they began to falter.

Soon they were falling back, some actually running

from the field. And then the figure of Baron Meliadus

appeared, crying out to them to turn to stand and to

fight.

"Back!" he cried. "You cannot fear so few!" But

the tide was completely on the turn now, and he him-

self was caught by it, borne back by his retreating

men.

They fled in terror from the pale-faced knight

whose sword fell everywhere, in whose skull a black

jewel shone and at whose throat hung an amulet of

scarlet fire, whose fierce horse reared over their heads.

They had heard, too, that he shouted the name of a

dead manthat he, himself, was a dead man, Dorian

Hawkmoon, who had fought against them at Koln

and almost defeated them there, who had defied the

King-Emperor himself, who had nearly slain Baron

Meliadus and had, in fact, defeated him more than

once. Hawkmoon! It was the only name the Dark

Empire feared.

"Hawkmoon! Hawkmoon!" The figure held its

sword high as its horse reared again. "Hawkmoon!"

Possessed of the power of the Red Amulet, Hawk-

moon chased the fleeing army, and he laughed wildly

with a mad triumph. Behind him rode Count Brass,

terrible in his red-gold armor, his huge blade dripping

with the blood of his foes; Oladahn, grinning through

his fur, bright eyes gleaming, saber slick with gore;

and behind them the jubilant forces of the Kamarg, a

handful of men jeering at the mighty army they had

routed.

Now the power of the amulet began to fade from

Hawkmoon, and he felt his pains return, felt the

weariness again, but now it did not matter, for they

had come to the border, marked by the ruined towers,

and watched their enemies in flight.

Oladahn laughed. "Our victory, Hawkmoon."

Count Brass frowned. "Ayebut not one we can

sustain. We must withdraw, regroup, find some safer

ground to stand, for we will not beat them again in

the open field."

"You are right," nodded Hawkmoon. "Now that

the towers have fallen we need to find another spot

well defendedand there is only one I can think

of. . . ." He glanced at the Count.

"AyeCastle Brass," agreed the old man. "We must

send word to all the towns and villages of the Kamarg

to tell the people to bring their goods and stock to

Aigues-Mortes under the protection of the castle... ."

"Will we be able sustain so many for a long siege?"

Hawkmoon asked.

"We shall see," Count Brass replied, watching the

distant army beginning to regroup. "But at least they

will have some protection when the Dark Empire

troops flood over our Kamarg."

There were tears in his eyes as he turned his horse

and began to ride back to the castle.

From the balcony of his rooms in the eastern tower,

Hawkmoon watched the people driving their live-

stock into the protection of the old town of Aigues-

Mortes. Most of them were corralled in the amphi-

theater at one end of the town. Soldiers brought in

provisions and helped folk with their loaded carts. By

evening all but a few had entered the safety of the

walls, crowding into houses or camping in the streets.

Hawkmoon prayed that plague or panic might not set

in, for such a crowd might be hard to control.

Oladahn joined him on the balcony, pointing to the

northeast. "Look," he said. "Flying machines." And

Hawkmoon saw the ominous shapes of Dark Empire

ornithopters flapping over the horizon, a certain sign

that the army of Granbretan was on the move.

By nightfall, they could see the cooking fires of the

nearest troops.

"Tomorrow," said Hawkmoon. "It could be our

last battle."

They went down to the hall, where Bowgentle

talked to Count Brass. Food had been prepared, as lav-

ishly as ever. The two men turned as Hawkmoon and

Oladahn entered the hall.

"How is D'Averc?" Hawkmoon asked.

"Stronger," Bowgentle said. "He has an excellent

constitution, says he would like to get up to eat to-

night. I said he might."

Yisselda came through the outer door. "I've spoken

to the women," she said, "and they say all are now

within the walls. We have enough provisions to last as

much as a year, if we slaughter the stock...."

Count Brass smiled sadly. "It will take less than a

year to decide this battle. And how is the spirit in the

town?"

"Good," she said, "now that they have heard of

your victory today and know you both to be alive."

" "It is as well," Count Brass said heavily, "that they

do not know that tomorrow they die. Or if not to-

morrow, the next day. We cannot stand against such

a weight of soldiers for long, my dear. Most of our

flamingoes are dead, so we have virtually no protec-

tion in the air. Most of our Guardians are dead, and

the troops we have left are all but untrained."

Bowgentle sighed. "And we thought the Kamarg

could never fall...."

"You are too certain that it will," said a voice from

the stairs, and there was D'Averc, pale and dressed in a

loose, fawn-colored gown, limping down to the hall.

"In such spirits you are bound to lose. You could try

to talk of victory, at least."

"You are right, Sir Huillam." Count Brass changed

his mood with an effort of will. "And we could eat

some of this good food here to give us energy for to-

morrow's struggle."

"How are you, D'Averc?" Hawkmoon asked as

they seated themselves at the board.

"Well enough," said D'Averc lightly. "I think I can

manage some small refreshments." And he began to

heap his plate with meat.

They ate in silence, for the most part, relishing the

meal that many felt would be their last.

When Hawkmoon looked from his window the

next morning, it was to see the marshlands overlaid

with men. In the night, the Dark Empire had crept up

close to their walls, and, now it was readying itself to

the assault.

Quickly Hawkmoon donned clothes and armor and

went down to the hall, where he found D'Averc al-

ready encased in his patched armor, Oladahn cleaning

his blade, and Count Brass discussing some feature of

the coming campaign with two of his remaining

captains.

There was an atmosphere of tension in the hall, and the men spoke to one another in murmurs.

Yisselda appeared and called to him softly, "Dori-

an..." He turned and ran up the stairs to the landing

on which she stood, taking her in his arms and holding

her close, kissing her gently on the forehead. "Dori-

an," she said, "let us be married before..."

"Aye," he said quietly. "Let us find Bowgentle."

They found the philosopher in his quarters reading

a book. He looked up as they entered and smiled at

them. They told him what they wanted, and he laid

down his book. "I had hoped for the grand cere-

mony," he said, "but I understand."

And he made them join hands and kneel before him

while he spoke the words of his own composition that

had always been used in marriages since he and his

friend the Count had come to Castle Brass.

When it was done, Hawkmoon stood up and kissed

Yisselda again. Then he said, "Look after her, Bow-

gentle," and left the room to join his friends, who

were already leaving the hall for the courtyard.

As they mounted their horses a great shadow sud-

denly darkened the courtyard, and they heard the

creaking and clattering overhead that could only be a

Dark Empire ornithopter. A bolt of flame leapt from

it and splashed on the cobbles, narrowly missing

Hawkmoon and causing his horse to rear, nostrils flar-

ing and eyes rolling.

Count Brass brought up the flame-lance with which

he had already equipped himself and touched the stud,

and red fire struck upwards at the flying machine.

They heard the pilot scream and saw the thing's wings

cease to work. It glided out of sight, and they heard it

crash at last on the side of the hill.

"I must station flame-lancers in the towers," Count

Brass said. "They'll have the best chance of striking

back at the ornithopters. Come, gentlemenlet's to the

battle."

And as they left the castle walls and rode down to

the town, they saw the huge tide of men was already

washing at the walls of the town where Kamarg war-

riors fought desperately to drive it back.

Ornithopters, fashioned like grotesque metal birds,

wheeled over the town, pouring down flame into the

streets, and the air became filled with the screams of

the townsfolk, the roar of flame-lances, and the clash

of metal against metal. Black smoke hung over

Aigues-Mortes, and in places houses were already

burning.

Hawkmoon led the charge down to the town and

pushed through frightened women and children to

gain the walls and join in the fight. Elsewhere were

Count Brass, D'Averc, and Oladahn, helping to resist

the force that tried to crush the town.

There came a desperate roar from one portion of

the wall and an echoing cheer of triumph, and Hawk-

moon began to run in that direction, seeing that a

hole had been breached in the defenses and Dark Em-

pire warriors, in helms of wolf and bear, were gush-

ing through.

Hawkmoon met them, and they wavered instantly,

remembering his earlier exploits. He was no longer

equipped with superhuman strength, but he used the

pause to cry his ancestral battleshout, "Hawkmoon!

Hawkmoon!" and leap at them, sword meeting metal,

flesh, and bone and driving them back through the

breach.

So they fought all day, holding the town even as

their numbers rapidly dropped, and when the night

fell and the Dark Empire troops withdrew. Hawk-

moon knew, as they all knew, that the next morning

must bring defeat.

Wearily, Hawkmoon, Count Brass, and the others

led their horses back up the winding road to the

castle, their hearts heavy as they thought of all the in-

nocents slaughtered that day and of all the innocents

who would be slaughtered tomorrowif they were

lucky enough to die.

Then they heard a galloping horse behind them and

turned on the slope, swords ready, to see the strange

figure of a tall rider coming up the hill toward the

castle. He had a long helm that completely encased

his face, and his armor was wrought all in jet and gold.

Hawkmoon scowled. "What does that traitorous thief

want? "he said.

The Warrior in Jet and Gold pulled up his big

horse nearby. His deep, vibrant voice came from

within his helmet then. "Greetings, defenders of the

Kamarg. I see the day goes badly for you. Baron Meli-

adus will defeat you tomorrow."

Hawkmoon wiped his forehead with a rag. "No

need to make so much of the obvious, Warrior. What

have you come to steal this time?"

"Nothing," said the warrior. "I have come to de-

liver something." He reached behind him and pro-

duced Hawkmoon's battered saddlebags.

Hawkmoon's spirits rose, and he leaned forward to

take the saddlebags, opening one to look inside.

There, wrapped in a cloak, was the object he had been

given so long ago by Rinal. It was safe. He pulled

back the cloak and saw the crystal unshattered.

"But why did you take it in the first place?" he

asked.

"Let us go to Castle Brass, and there I will explain

all to you," said the warrior.

In the hall the warrior stood up by the fireplace

while the others sat in various positions around him,

listening.

"At the Mad God's castle," began the warrior, "I

left you because I knew that with the aid of the Mad

God's beasts you could soon be safely away from

there. But I knew other hazards lay ahead for you

and suspected that you might be captured. Therefore,

I decided to take the object Rinal gave you and keep

it safe until you should return to the Kamarg."

"And I had thought you a thief!" Hawkmoon said.

"I am sorry, Warrior."

"But what is the object?" Count Brass asked.

"An ancient machine," the Warrior said, "produced

by one of the most sophisticated sciences ever to

emerge on this earth."

"A weapon?" Count Brass asked.

"No. It is a device which can warp whole areas of

rime and space and shift them into other dimensions.

While the machine exists, it can exert this power, but

should it, by mischance, be destroyed, then the area it

has warped falls immediately back into the time and

space original to it."

"And how is it operated?" Hawkmoon asked, re-

membering suddenly that he had no such knowledge.

"It is difficult to explain, since you would recognize

none of the words I would use," said the Warrior in

Jet and Gold. "But Rinal has taught me its use, among

other things, and I can work it."

"But for what purpose?" D'Averc asked. "To shift

the troublesome Baron and his men to some limbo

where they will not trouble us again?"

"No," said the Warrior. "I will explain-"

The doors burst open, and a battered soldier rushed

into the hall. "Master," he cried to Count Brass, "it

is Baron Meliadus under a flag of truce. He would

parley with you at the town walls."

"I have nothing to say to him," Count Brass said.

"He says that he intends to attack at night. That he

can have the walls down within an hour, for he has

fresh troops held back for the purpose. He says that

if you deliver your daughter, Hawkmoon, D'Averc,

and yourself into his hands, he will be lenient with the

rest."

Count Brass thought for a moment, but Hawkmoon

broke in, "It is useless to consider such a bargain,

Count Brass. We both know of Meliadus's penchant

for treachery. He seeks only to demoralize the folks

to make his victory easier."

Count Brass sighed. "But if what he says is true,

and I cannot doubt that it is, he will have the walls

down shortly and we all perish."

"With honor, at least," said D'Averc.

"Aye," said Count Brass with a somewhat sardonic

smile. "With honor, at least." He turned to the cou-

rier. "Tell Baron Meliadus that we still do not wish to

speak with him."

The warrior bowed. "I will, my lord." He left the

hall.

"We had best return to the walls," said Count Brass,

rising wearily just as Yisselda entered the room.

"Ah, Father, Dorianyou are both safe."

Hawkmoon embraced her. "But now we must go

back," he said softly. "Meliadus is about to launch an-

other attack."

"Wait," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "I have

yet to describe my plan to you."

Chapter Twelve

ESCAPE TO LIMBO

BARON MELIADUS SMILED when he heard the cou-

rier's message.

"Very well," he said to his stewards, "let the whole

town be destroyed and as many of its inhabitants

taken alive to give us sport on our victory day." He

turned his horse back to where his fresh troops awaited

him.

"Move forward," he said, and watched as they be-

gan to flow towards the doomed town and the castle

beyond.

He saw the fires on the town walls, the few soldiers

waiting, knowing with certainty that they would die

now. He saw the graceful outlines of the castle that

had once protected the town so well, and he chuck-

led. There was a warmth inside him, for he had longed

for this victory ever since he had been ejected from

the castle some two years earlier.

Now his troops had nearly reached the walls, and

he kicked his horse's flanks to make it move down so

that he could see the battle better.

Then he frowned. There seemed something wrong

with the light, for the outline of town and castle had

apparently wavered in a most alarming fashion.

He opened his mask and rubbed at his eyes, then

looked again.

The silhouette of Castle Brass and Aigues-Mortes

seemed to glow, first pink, then pale red, then scarlet,

and Baron Meliadus felt lightheaded. He licked his

dry lips and feared for his sanity.

The troops had paused in their attack and mutter-

ing to themselves and backing away from the place.

The entire town and the hillside and castle it sur-

rounded were now a flaming blue. The blue began to

fade, and fading with it went Castle Brass and Aigues-

Mortes. A wild wind blew, knocking Baron Meliadus

back in his saddle.

He cried out, "Guards! What has happened?"

"The place hashas vanished, my lord," came a

nervous voice.

"Vanished! Impossible. How can a whole town and

a hill vanish? It is still there. They have erected some

kind of screen around the place."

Baron Meliadus rode wildly down to where the

town walls had been, expecting to meet a barrier, but

none blocked him, and his horse trampled over only

mud that looked as if it had been recently plowed.

"They have escaped me!" he howled. "But how?

What science aids them? What power can they have

that is greater than mine?"

The troops had begun to turn back. Some were

running. But Baron Meliadus dismounted from his

horse, hands outstretched, trying to feel for the van-

ished town. He screamed with fury and wept with

impotent rage, falling at last to his knees in the mud

and shaking his fist at where Castle Brass had been.

"I will find you, Hawkmoonand your friends. I

will bring all the scientific knowledge of Granbretan

to bear on this search. And I will follow you, if needs

be, to whatever place you have escaped to, whether it

be on this earth or beyond it, and you will know my

vengeance. By the Runestaff, I swear this!"

And then he looked up as he heard the thump of a

horse's hooves riding past him, thought he saw a figure

flash by in armor of jet and gold, thought he heard

ghostly ironic laughter, and then the rider, too had

vanished.

Baron Meliadus rose up from his knees and looked

around him for his horse.

"Oh, Hawkmoon," he said through clenched teeth.

"Oh, Hawkmoon, I will catch thee!"

Again he had sworn by the Runestaff, as on that

fateful morning two years before. And his action had

set in motion a new pattern of history. His second

oath strengthened that pattern, whether it favored

Meliadus or Hawkmoon, and hardened all their des-

tinies a little more strongly.

Baron Meliadus found his horse and returned to his

camp. Tomorrow he would leave for Granbretan and

the labyrinth laboratories of the Order of the Snake.

Sooner or later he would be bound to find a way

through to the vanished Castle Brass, he told himself.

Yisselda looked through the window in wonder-

ment, her face alight with joy; Hawkmoon smiled

down at her and hugged her to him.

Behind them, Count Brass coughed and said, "To

tell you the truth, my children, I'm a little disturbed

by all thisthis science. Where did that fellow say we

were?"

"In some other Kamarg, father," said Yisselda.

The view from the window was misty. Though the

town and the hillside were solid enough, the rest was

not. Beyond it they could see, as if through a blue

radiance, shining lagoons and waving reeds, but they

were of transformed colors, no longer of simple greens

and yellows, but of all the colors of the rainbow and

without the substance of the castle and its surrounds.

"He said we might explore it," said Hawkmoon.

"So it must be more tangible than it looks."

D'Averc cleared his throat. "I'll stay here and in the

town, I think. What say you, Oladahn?"

Oladahn grinned. "I think sountil I'm more used

to it, at least."

"Well, I'm with you," said Count Brass. He

laughed. Still, we're safe, eh? And all the folk, too.

We've that to be grateful for."

"Aye," said Bowgentle thoughtfully. "But we must

not underestimate the scientific prowess of Gran-

bretan. If there is a way of following us here, they

will find itbe sure of that."

Hawkmoon nodded. "You are right, Bowgentle."

He pointed to Rinal's gift, which lay now in the cen-

ter of the empty dining table, outlined in the strange,

pale blue light that flooded through the windows.

"We must keep that in our safest vault. Remember

what the warrior saidif it is destroyed, we find our-

selves back again in our own space and time."

Bowgentle went over to the machine and gently

picked it up. "I will see that it is safe," he said.

When he had left, Hawkmoon turned again to look

through the window, fingering the Red Amulet.

"The warrior said that he would come again with a

message and a mission for me," he said. "I am in no

doubt now that I serve the Runestaff, and when the

warrior comes, I shall have to leave Castle Brass, leave

this sanctuary, and return again to the world. You

must be prepared for that, Yisselda."

"Let us not speak of it now," she said, "but cele-

brate, instead, our marriage."

"Aye, let us do that," he said with a smile. But he

could not shut entirely from his mind the knowledge

that somewhere, separated from him by subtle bar-

riers, the world still existed and was still in danger

from the Dark Empire. Though he appreciated the

respite, the time to spend with the woman he loved,

he knew that soon he must return to that world and

do battle once more with the forces of Granbretan.

But for the moment, he would be happy.