Book 3 of The Runestaff

The Sword of The Dawn

by Michael Moorcock

Contents

Book One

1The Last City9

2The Flamingoes' Dance13

3Elvereza Tozer19

4Flana Mikosevaar27

5Taragorm30

6The Audience33

7The Emissaries39

8Meliadus at the Palace of Time48

9Interlude at Castle Brass54

10The Sights of Londra56

11Thoughts of the Countess Flana59

12A Revelation60

13King Huon's Displeasure66

14The Wastes of Yel69

15The Deserted Cavern77

16Mygan of Llandar86

Book Two

1Zhenak-Teng97

2The Charki103

3The Sayou River108

4Valjon of Starvel114

5PahlBewchard127

6Narleen132

7The Blaze140

8The Walls of Starvel146

9The Temple of Batach Gerandiun152

10A Friend from the Shadows160

11The Parting170

BOOK ONE

WHEN THAT ASPECT of the Eternal Champion

called Dorian Hawkmoon, last Duke of Koln, ripped

the Red Amulet from the throat of the Mad God

and made that powerful thing his own, he returned

with Huillam D'Averc and Oladahn of the Mountains

to the Kamarg where Count Brass, his daughter Yis-

selda, his friend Bowgentle the philosopher and all

their people underwent siege from the hordes of the

Dark Empire led by Hawkmoon's old enemy Baron

Meliadus of Kroiden.

So powerful had the Dark Empire grown that it

threatened to destroy even the well-protected province

of the Kamarg. If that happened, it would mean that

Meliadus would take Yisselda for his own and slay

slowly all the rest, turning the Kamarg to a waste of

ash. Only by the mighty force released by the ancient

machine of the wraith-folk which could warp whole

areas of time and space were they saved by shifting

into another dimension of the Earth.

And so they found sanctuary. Sanctuary in some

other Kamarg, where the evil and horror of Granbretan

did not exist; but they knew that if ever the crystal ma-

chine were destroyed, they would be plunged back into

the chaos of their own time and space.

For a while they lived in joyful relief at their es-

cape, but gradually Hawkmoon began to finger his

sword and wonder at the fate of his own world . . .

The High History of the Runestaff

Chapter One

THE LAST CITY

THE GRIM RIDERS spurred their battle-steeds up

the muddy slopes of the hill, coughing as their lungs

took in the thick black smoke rising from the valley.

It was evening, the sun was setting, and their gro-

tesque shadows were long. In the twilight, it seemed

that gigantic beast-headed creatures rode the horses.

Each rider bore a banner, stained by war, each wore

a huge beast-mask of jewelled metal and heavy armour

of steel, brass and silver, emblazoned with its wearer's

device, battered and bloodied, and each gauntleted

right hand gripped a weapon on which was encrusted

the remains of a hundred innocents.

The six horsemen reached the top of the hill and

dragged their snorting mounts to a halt, stabbing their

banners into the earth where they flapped like the

wings of birds of prey in the hot wind from the valley.

Wolf-mask turned to stare at Fly-mask, Ape glanced

at Goat, Rat seemed to grin at Hounda grin of

triumph. The Beasts of the Dark Empire, each a War-

lord of thousands, looked beyond the valley and be-

yond the hills to the sea, looked back at the blazing city

below them where, faintly, they could hear the wails

of the slaughtered and the tormented.

The sun set, night fell arid the flames burned bright-

er, reflected in the dark metal of the masks of the

Lords of Granbretan.

"Well, my lords," said Baron Meliadus, Grand Con-

stable of the Order of, the Wolf, Commander of the

Army of Conquest, his deep, vibrant voice booming

from within his great mask, "well, we have conquered

all Europe now."

Mygel Hoist, skeletal Archduke of Londra, head of

which he had barely escaped with his life, laughed,

the Order of the Goat, veteran of the Kamarg, from

"Ayeall Europe. Not an inch of it is not ours. And

now great parts of the East belong to us also." The

Goat helm nodded as if in satisfaction, the ruby eyes

catching the firelight, flashing malignantly.

"Soon," merrily growled Adaz Promp, Master of the

Order of the Hound, "all the world will be ours. All."

The Barons of Granbretan, masters of a continent,

tacticians and warriors of ferocious courage and skill,

careless of their own lives, corrupt of soul and mad of

brain, haters of all that was not in decay, wielders of

power without morality, force without justice, chuckled

with gloomy pleasure as they watched the last Euro-

pean city to withstand them crumble and die. It had

been an old city. It had been called Athena.

"All," said Jerek Nankenseen, Warlord of the Order

of the Fly, "save the hidden Kamarg ..."

And Baron Meliadus lost his humor then, made al-

most as if he would strike his fellow warlord.

Jerek Nankenseen's bejewelled Fly-mask turned a

little to regard Meliadus and the voice from within the

mask was baiting. "Is it not enough that you have

chased them away, my lord Baron?"

"No," snarled the Wolf of Wolves. "Not enough."

"They can offer us no menace," murmured Baron

Brenal Farnu of the Rat helm. "From what our scien-

tists divined, they exist in a dimension beyond Earth,

in some other time or space. We cannot reach them and

they cannot reach us. Let us enjoy our triumph, un-

marred by thoughts of Hawkmoon and Count

Brass..."

"I cannot!"

"Or is it another name that haunts thee, brother

Baron?" Jerek Nankenseen mocked the man who had

been his rival in more than one amorous encounter in

Londra. "The name of the fair one, Yisselda? Is it love

that moves you, my lord? Sweet love?"

For a moment the Wolf did not reply, but the hand

that gripped the sword tightened as if in fury. Then

the rich, musical voice spoke and it had recovered its

composure, was almost light in tone.

"Vengeance, Baron Jerek Nankenseen, is what moti-

vates me..."

"You are a most passionate man, Baron . . ." Jerek

Nankenseen said dryly.

Meliadus sheathed his sword suddenly and reached

out to grasp his banner, wrenching it from the earth.

"They have insulted our King-Emperor, our land

and myself. I will have the girl for my pleasure, but in

no soft spirit will I take her, no weak emotion will

motivate me..."

"Of course not," murmured Jerek Nankenseen, a

hint of patronage in his voice.

". . . And as for the others, I will have my pleasure

with them, alsoin the prison vaults of Londra. Do-

rian Hawkmoon, Count Brass, the philosopher Bow-

gentle, the unhuman one, Oladahn of the Bulgar Moun-

tains, and the traitor Huillam D'Avercall these shall

suffer for many years. That I have sworn by the Rune-

staff!"

There was a sound behind them. They turned to

peer through the flickering light and saw a canopied lit-

ter being borne up the hill by a dozen Athenan prison-

ers of war who were chained to its poles. In the litter

lounged the unconventional Shenegar Trott, Count of

Sussex. Count Shenegar almost disdained the wearing

of a mask at all, and as it was he wore a silver one

scarcely larger than his head, fashioned to resemble, in

caricature, his own visage. He belonged to no Order

and was tolerated by the King-Emperor and his Court

because of his immense richness and almost superhu-

man courage in battleyet he gave the appearance, in

his jeweled robes and lazy manner, of a besotted fool.

He, even more than Meliadus, had the confidence (such

as it was) of the King-Emperor Huon, for his advice

was almost always excellent. He had plainly heard the

last part of the exchange and spoke banteringly.

"A dangerous oath to swear, my lord Baron," said he

softly. "One that could, by all counts, have repercus-

sions on he who swears it..."

"I swore the oath with that knowledge," replied Me-

liadus. "I shall find them, Count Shenegar, never fear."

"I came to remind you, my lords," said Shenegar

Trott, "that our King-Emperor grows impatient to see

us and hear our report that all Europe is now his

property."

"I will ride for Londra instantly," Meliadus said.

"For there I may consult our sorcerer-scientists and

discover a means of hunting out my foes. Farewell,

my lords."

He dragged at his horse's reins, turning the beast and

galloping back down the hill, watched by his peers.

The beast-masks moved together in the firelight. "His

singular mentality could destroy us all," whispered one.

"What matter?" chuckled Shenegar Trott, "so long

as all is destroyed with us ..."

The answering laughter was wild, ringing from the

jeweled helms. It was insane laughter, tinged as much

with self-hatred as with hatred of the world.

For this was the great power of the Lords of the

Dark Empire, that they valued nothing on all the Earth,

no human quality, nothing within or without them-

selves. The spreading of conquest and desolation, of

terror and torment, was their staple entertainment, a

means of employing their hours until their spans of life

were ended. For them, warfare was merely the most

satisfactory way of easing their ennui ...

Chapter Two

THE FLAMINGOES

DANCE

AT DAWN, WHEN clouds of giant scarlet flamin-

goes rose from their nests of reeds and wheeled through

the sky in bizarre ritual dances, Count Brass would

stand on the edge of the marsh and stare over the water

at the strange configurations of dark lagoons and tawny

islands that seemed to him like hieroglyphs in some

primeval language.

The ontological revelations that might exist in these

patterns had always intrigued him, and of late he had

taken to studying the birds, reeds and lagoons, attempt-

ing to divine the key to this cryptic landscape.

The landscape, he thought, was coded. In it he might

find the answers to the dilemma of which even he was

only half-conscious; find, perhaps, the revelation that

would tell him what he needed to know of the growing

threat he felt was about to engulf him both psychically

and physically.

The sun rose, brightening the water with its pale

light, and Count Brass heard a sound, turned, and saw

his daughter Yisselda, golden-haired madonna of the

lagoons, an almost preternatural figure in her flowing

blue gown, riding bareback her white horned Kamarg

horse and smiling mysteriously as if she, too, knew

some secret that he could never fully comprehend.

Count Brass sought to avoid the girl by stepping out

briskly along the shore, but already she was riding

close to him and waving.

"Fatheryou're up early! Not for the first time re-

cently."

Count Brass nodded, turned again to contemplate

the waters and the reeds, looked up suddenly at the

dancing birds as if to catch them by surprise, or by

some instinctive flash of divination learn the secret of

their strange, almost frenetic gyrations.

Yisselda had dismounted and now stood beside him.

"They are not our flamingoes," she said. "And yet

they're so like them. What do you see?"

Count Brass shrugged and smiled at her. "Noth-

ing. Where's Hawkmoon?"

"At the castle. He's still asleep."

Count Brass grunted, clasping his great hands to-

gether as if in desperate prayer, listening to the beat-

ing of the heavy wings overhead. Then he relaxed and

took her by the arm, guiding her along the bank of the

lagoon.

"It's beautiful," she murmured. "The sunrise."

Count Brass made a small gesture of impatience.

"You don't understand . . ." he began, and then

paused. He knew that she would never see the land-

scape as he saw it. He had tried once to describe it to

her, but she had lost interest quickly, had made no

effort to understand the significance of the patterns he

detected everywherein the water, the reeds, the trees,

the animal life that filled this Kamarg in abundance,

as it had filled the Kamarg that they had left.

To him it was the quintessence of order, but to her

it was simply pleasurable to look atsomething "beau-

tiful," to admire, in fact, for its "wildness."

Only Bowgentle, the philosopher poet, Ms old friend,

had an inkling of what he meant and even then Bow-

gentle believed that it reflected not on the nature of the

landscape but on the particular nature of Count Brass's

mind.

"You're exhausted, disorientated," Bowgentle would

say. "The ordering mechanism of the brain is working

too hard, so you see a pattern to existence that, in fact,

only stems from your own weariness and distur-

bance ..."

Count Brass would dismiss this argument with a

scowl, don his armour of brass and ride away on his

own again, to the discomfort of his family and friends.

He had spent a long while exploring this new Kamarg

that was so much like his own save that there was no

evidence of mankind's ever having existed here.

"He is a man of action, like myself," Dorian Hawk-

moon, Yisselda's husband, would say. "His mind turns

inward, I fear, for want of some real problem with

which to engage itself."

"The real problems seem insoluble," Bowgentle

would reply, and the conversation would end as Hawk-

moon, too, went off by himself, his hand on the hilt of

his sword.

There was tension in Castle Brass, and even in the

village below, the folk were troubled, glad of their es-

cape from the terror of the Dark Empire, but not sure

that they were permanently settled in this new land so

like the one they had left. At first, when they had ar-

rived, the land had seemed a transformed version of the

Kamarg, its colors those of the rainbow, but gradually

those colors had changed to more natural ones, as if

their memories had imposed themselves on the land-

scape, so that now there was little difference. There

were herds of horned horses and white bulls to tame,

scarlet flamingoes that might be trained to bear riders,

but at the back of the villagers' minds was always the

threat of the Dark Empire somehow finding a way

through even to this retreat.

To Hawkmoon and Count Brassperhaps to

D'Averc, Bowgentle and Oladahn, toothe idea was

not so threatening. There were times when they would

have welcomed an assault from the world they had

left.

While Count Brass studied the landscape and sought

to divine its secrets, Dorian Hawkmoon would ride at

speed along the lagoon trails, scattering herds of bulls

and horses, sending the flamingoes flapping into the

sky, looking for an enemy.

One day, as he rode back on a steaming horse from

one of his many journeys of exploration along the

shores of the violet sea (sea and terrain seemed without

limit), he saw the flamingoes wheeling in the sky,

spiraling upwards on the air currents and then drifting

down again. It was afternoon and the flamingo dance

took place only at dawn. The giant birds seemed dis-

turbed and Hawkmoon decided to investigate.

He spurred his horse along the winding path through

the marsh until he was directly below the flamingoes,

saw that they wheeled above a small island covered in

tall reeds. He peered intently at the island and thought

that he glimpsed something among the reeds, a flash of

red that could be a man's coat.

At first Hawkmoon decided that it was probably a

villager snaring duck, but then he realized that if that

had been so the man would have hailed himat least

waved him away to ensure he would not disturb the

fowl.

Puzzled, Hawkmoon spurred his horse into the wa-

ter, swimming it across to the island and on to the

marshy ground. The animal's powerful body pushed

back the tough reeds as it moved and again Hawk-

moon saw a flash of red, became convinced that he

had seen a man.

"Ho!" he cried. "Who's there!"

He received no answer. Instead the reeds became

more agitated as the man began to run through them

without caution.

"Who are you?" Hawkmoon cried, and it came to

him then that the Dark Empire had broken through at

last, that there were men hidden everywhere in the

reeds ready to attack Castle Brass.

He thundered through the reeds in pursuit of the

red-jerkined man, saw him clearly now as he flung him-

self into the lagoon and began to swim for the bank.

"Stop!" Hawkmoon called, but the man swam on.

Hawkmoon's horse plunged again into the water and

it foamed white. The man was already wading onto the

opposite bank, glanced back to see that Hawkmoon

was almost upon him, turned right round and drew a

bright, slender sword of extraordinary length.

But it was not the sword that astonished Hawkmoon

mostit was the impression that the man had no face!

The whole of the head beneath the long, fair, dirty hair

was blank. Hawkmoon gasped, drawing his own sword.

Was it some alien inhabitant of this world?

Hawkmoon swung himself from his saddle, sword

ready, as the horse clambered onto the bank, stood

legs astraddle facing his strange antagonist, laughed

suddenly as he realized the truth. The man was wearing

a mask of light leather. The mouth and eye slits were

very thin and could not be distinguished at a distance.

"Why do you laugh?" the masked man asked in a

braying voice, his sword on guard. "You should not

laugh, my friend, for you are about to die."

"Who are you?" Hawkmoon asked. "I know you for

a boaster only."

"I am a greater swordsman than you," replied the

man. "You had best surrender now."

"I regret I can't accept your word on the quality of

my swordsmanship or your own," Hawkmoon replied

with a smile. "How is it that such a master of the blade

is so poorly attired, for instance?"

With his sword he indicated the man's patched red

jerkin, his trousers and boots of cracked leather. Even

his bright sword had no scabbard, but had been drawn

from a loop of cord attached to a rope belt on which

also dangled a purse that bulged. On the man's fingers

were rings of obvious glass and paste and the flesh of

his skin looked grey and unhealthy. The body was tall

but stringy, half-starved by the look of it.

"A beggar, I'd guess," mocked Hawkmoon. "Where

did you steal the sword, beggar?"

He gasped as the man thrust suddenly, then with-

drew. The movement had been incredibly rapid and

Hawkmoon felt a sting on his cheek, put up his hand to

his face and discovered that it bled.

"Shall I prick you thus to death?" sneered the

stranger. "Put down your heavy sword and make your-

self my prisoner."

Hawkmoon laughed with real pleasure. "Good! A

worthy opponent after all. You do not know how much

I welcome you, my friend. It has been too long since I

heard the ring of steel in my ears!" And with that he

lunged at the masked man.

His adversary deftly defended himself with a parry

that somehow became a thrust which Hawkmoon bare-

ly managed to block in time. Feet planted firmly in

the marshy ground, neither moved an inch from his

position, both fought skillfully and unheatedly, each

recognising in the other a true master of the sword.

They fought for an hour, absolutely matched, neither

giving nor sustaining a wound, and Hawkmoon de-

cided on different tactics, began gradually to shift back

down the bank towards the water.

Thinking that Hawkmoon was retreating, the masked

man seemed to gam confidence and his sword moved

even more rapidly than before so that Hawkmoon was

forced to exert all his energy to deflect it.

Then Hawkmoon pretended to slip in the mud, go-

ing down on one knee. The other sprang forward to

thrust and Hawkmoon's blade moved rapidly, the flat

striking the man's wrist. He yelled and the sword fell

from his hand. Quickly Hawkmoon jumped up and

placed his boot upon the weapon, his blade at the

other's throat.

"Not a trick worthy of a true swordsman," grumbled

the masked man.

"I am easily bored," Hawkmoon replied. "I was be-

coming impatient with the game."

"Well, what now?"

"Your name?" Hawkmoon said. "I'll know that first

then see your facethen know your business here-

then, and perhaps most important, discover how you

came here."

"My name you will know," said the man with undis-

guised pride. "It is Elvereza Tozer."

"I do know it, indeed!" remarked the Duke of Koln

in some surprise.

Chapter Three

ELVEREZA TOZER

ELVEREZA TOZER was not the man Hawkmoon

would have expected to meet if he had been told in

advance that he was to encounter Granbretan's great-

est playwrighta writer whose work was admired

throughout Europe, even by those who in all other

ways loathed Granbretan. The author of King Staleen,

The Tragedy of Katine and Carna, The Last of the

Braldurs, Annala, Chirshil and Adutf, The Comedy of

Steel and many more, had not been heard of of late,

but Hawkmoon had thought this due to the wars. He

would have expected Tozer to have been rich in dress,

confident in every way, poised and full of wit. Instead

he found a man who seemed more at ease with a sword

than with words, a vain man, something of a fool and

a poppinjay, dressed in rags.

As he propelled Tozer with his own sword along the

marsh trails towards Castle Brass, Hawkmoon puzzled

over this apparent paradox. Was the man lying? If so,

why should he claim to be, of all things, an eminent

playmaker?

Tozer walked along, apparently undisturbed by his

change of fortune, whistling a jaunty tune.

Hawkmoon paused. "A moment," he said, and

reached to grasp the reins of his horse, which had been

following him. Tozer turned. He still wore his mask.

Hawkmoon had been so astonished at hearing the name

that he had forgotten to order Tozer to remove the

leather from his face.

"Well," Tozer said, glancing about him. "It is a love-

ly countrythough short in audiences, I would gath-

er."

"Aye," replied Hawkmoon, nonplussed. "Aye . . ."

He gestured towards the horse. "We'll ride pillion, I

think. Into the saddle with you, Master Tozer."

Tozer swung up onto the horse and Hawkmoon fol-

lowed him, taking the reins and urging the horse into

a trot.

In this manner they rode until they came to the gates

of the town, passed through them, and proceeded slow-

ly through the winding streets, up the steep road to the

walls of Castle Brass.

Dismounting in the courtyard, Hawkmoon gave the

horse to a groom and indicated the door to the main

hall of the castle. "Through there, if you please," he

told Tozer.

With a small shrug, Tozer sauntered through the

door and bowed to the two men who stood there by the

great fire which blazed in the hall. Hawkmoon nodded

to them. "Good morning, Sir BowgentleD'Averc. I

have a prisoner..."

"So I see," D'Averc said, his gaunt, handsome fea-

tures brightening a little with interest. "Are the war-

riors of Granbretan at our gates again?"

"He is the only one, so far as I can judge," Hawk-

moon replied. "He claims to be Elvereza Tozer ..."

"Indeed?" The ascetic Bowgentle's quiet eyes took

on a look of curiosity. "The author of Chirshil and

Adulf? It is hard to believe."

Tozer's thin hand went to the mask and tugged at

the thongs securing it. "I know you, sir," he said. "We

met ten years hence when I came with my play to

Malaga."

"I recall the time. We discussed some poems you had

recently published and which I admired." Bowgentle

shook his head. "You are Elvereza Tozer, but . . ."

The mask came loose and revealed an emaciated,

shifty face sporting a whispy beard which did not hide

a weak, receding chin and which was dominated by a

long, thin nose. The flesh of the face was unhealthy

and bore the marks of a pox.

"And I recall the facethough it was fuller then.

Pray, what has happened to you, sir?" Bowgentle asked

faintly. "Are you a refugee seeking escape from your

countrymen?"

"Ah," Tozer sighed, darting Bowgentle a calculating

look. "Perhaps. Would you have a glass of wine, sir?

My encounter with your military friend here has left

me thirsty, I fear."

"What?" put in D'Averc. "Have you been fighting?"

"Fighting to kill," Hawkmoon said grimly. "I feel

that Master Tozer did not come to our Kamarg on an

errand of goodwill. I found him skulking in the reeds

to the south. I think he comes as a spy."

"And why should Elvereza Tozer, greatest play-

wright of the world, wish to spy?" The words were de-

livered by Tozer in a disdainful tone that yet some-

how lacked conviction.

Bowgentle bit his lip and tugged a bell rope for a

servant.

"That is for you to tell us, sir," Huillam D'Averc said

with some amusement in his voice. He coughed ostenta-

tiously. "Forgive mea slight chill, I think. The castle

is full of drafts ..."

"And I'd wish the same for myself," Tozer said, "if

a draft could be found." He looked at them expectantly.

"A draft to help us forget the draft, if you understand

me. A draft..."

"Yes, yes," said Bowgentle hastily and turned to the

servant who had entered. "A jug of wine for our guest,"

he requested. "And would you eat, Master Tozer?"

" 'I would eat the bread of Babel and the meat of

Marakhan . . .'", Tozer said dreamily. " Tor all such

fruits as fools supply are merely ...'"

"We can offer some cheese at this hour," D'Averc in-

terrupted sardonically.

"Annala, Act VI, Scene V," Tozer said. "You'll re-

member the scene?"

"I remember," D'Averc nodded. "I always felt that

section somewhat weaker than the rest."

"Subtler," Tozer said airily. "Subtler."

The servant re-entered with the wine and Tozer

helped himself, pouring a generous amount into the

goblet. "The concerns of literature," he said, "are not

always obvious to the common herd. A hundred years

from now and people will see the last act of Annala

not, as some stupid critics have said, as hastily written

and poorly conceived, but as the complex structure it

really is ..."

"I had reckoned myself as something of a writer,"

Bowgentle said, "but I must confess, I did not see

subtleties ... Perhaps you could explain."

"Some other time," Tozer told him, with an in-

souciant wave of the hand. He drank off the wine and

helped himself to another full goblet.

"In the meanwhile," Hawkmoon said firmly, "per-

haps you could explain your presence in the Kamarg.

After all, we had thought ourselves inviolate and

now..."

"You are still inviolate, never fear," Tozer said, "save

to myself, of course. By the power of my brain I pro-

pelled myself hither."

D'Averc sceptically rubbed his chin. "By the power

of yourbrain? How so?"

"An ancient discipline taught me by a master phi-

losopher who dwells in the hidden valleys of Yel . . ."

Tozer belched and poured more wine.

"Yel is that south western province of Granbretan is

it not?" Bowgentle asked.

"Aye. A remote, barely inhabited land, peopled by

a few dark-brown barbarians who live in holes in the

ground. After my play Chirshil and Adulf had in-

curred the displeasure of certain elements at Court, I

deemed it wise to retire there for a while, leaving my

enemies to take for themselves all goods, monies, and

mistresses I left behind. What know I of petty poli-

tics? How was I to realize that certain portions of the

play seemed to reflect the intrigues then current at the

Court?"

"So you were disgraced?" Hawkmoon said, looking

narrowly at Tozer. The story could be part of the

man's deception.

"MoreI almost lost my life. But the rural exis-

tence near killed me as it was ..."

"You met this philosopher who taught you how to

travel through the dimensions? Then you came here

seeking refuge?" Hawkmoon studied Tozer's reaction

to these questions.

"Noah, yes . . ." said the playwright. "That is to

say, I did not know exactly where I was coming . . ."

"I think that you were sent here by the King-Em-

peror to destroy us," Hawkmoon said. "I think, Master

Tozer, that you are lying to us."

"Lying? What is a lie? What is truth?" Tozer grinned

glassily up at Hawkmoon and then hiccupped.

"Truth," Hawkmoon replied evenly, "is a coarse

noose about your throat. I think we should hang you."

He fingered the dull black jewel imbedded in his fore-

head. "I am not unfamiliar with the tricks of the Dark

Empire. I have been their victim too often to risk being

deceived again." He looked at the others. "I say we

should hang him now."

"But how do we know if he is really the only one

who can reach us?" D'Averc asked sensibly. "We can-

not be too hasty, Hawkmoon."

"I am the only one, I swear it!" Tozer spoke ner-

vously now. "I admit, good sir, that I was commis-

sioned to come here. It was that or lose my life in the

prison catacombs of the Great Palace. When I had the

old man's secret, I returned to Londra thinking that

my power would enable me to bargain with those at

Court who were displeased with me. I wished only to

be returned to my former status and know that I had an

audience to write for once again. However, when I told

them of my new-found discipline, they instantly threat-

ened my life unless I came here and destroyed that

which enabled you to enter this dimension ... so I

cameglad, I must admit, to escape them. I was not

particularly willing to risk my skin in offending you

good folk but..."

"They did not ensure, in some way, that you would

perform the task they set you?" Hawkmoon asked.

"That is strange."

"To tell you the truth," Tozer said, downcast, "I do

not think they altogether believed in my power. I think

they merely wished to test that I had it. When I agreed

to go and left instantly, they must have been shocked."

"Not like the Dark Empire Lords to allow such an

oversight," mused D'Averc, his aquiline face frowning.

"Still, if you did not win our confidence, there's no

reason you should have won theirs. Nonetheless, I am

not altogether convinced that you speak the truth."

"You told them of this old man?" Bowgentle said.

"They will be able to learn his secret for themselves!"

"Not so," Tozer said with a leer. "I told them I had

struck upon the power myself, in my months of soli-

tude."

"No wonder they did not take you seriously!"

D'Averc smiled.

Tozer looked hurt and took another draft of wine.

"I find it difficult to believe that you were able to

travel here by exercise of your will alone," Bowgentle

admitted. "Are you sure you employed no other

means...?"

"None."

"I like this not at all," Hawkmoon said darkly.

"Even if he tells the truth, the Lords of Granbretan

will wonder where he found his power by now, will

learn all his movements, will almost certainly discover

the old manand then they will have the means to

come through in strength and we shall be doomed!"

"Indeed, these are difficult times," Tozer said, filling

his goblet yet again. "Remember your King Staleen,

Act IV, Scene II'Wild days, wild riders, and the

stink of warfare across the world!' Aha, I was a vi-

sionary and knew it not!" He was now evidently drunk.

Hawkmoon stared hard at the weak-chinned drunk-

ard, still finding it almost impossible to believe that

this was the great playwright Tozer.

"You wonder at my poverty, I see," Tozer said,

speaking with slurred tongue. "The result of a couple

of lines in Chirshil and Adulf, as I told you. Oh, the

wickedness of fate! A couple of lines, penned in good

faith, and here I am today, with the threat of a noose

about my gullet. You remember the scene of course,

and the speech? 'Court and king, alike corrupt . . . ?'

Act I, Scene I? Pity me, sir, and do not hang me. A

great artist destroyed by his own mighty genius."

"This old man," Bowgentle said. "What was he like?

Where exactly did he live?"

"The old man . . ." Tozer. forced more wine down

his throat. "The old man reminded me somewhat of

Ioni in my Comedy of Steel. Act II, Scene VI . . ."

"What was he like?" Hawkmoon asked impatiently.

" 'Machine-devoured, all his hours were given o'er

to that insidious circuitry, and old grew he, unnoticing,

in the service of his engines.' He lived only for his

science, you see. He made the rings . . ." Tozer put his

hand to his mouth.

"Rings? What rings?" D'Averc said swiftly.

"I feel that you must excuse me," Tozer said, rising

in a parody of dignity, "for the wine has proved too

rich for my empty stomach. Your pity, if you

please..."

It was true that Tozer's face had taken on a greenish

tinge.

"Very well," Bowgentle said wearily. "I will show

you."

"Before he leaves," came a new voice from near the

door, "ask him for the ring he wears on the middle

finger of his left hand." The tone was slightly muffled,

a little sardonic. Hawkmoon recognized it at once and

turned.

Tozer gasped and clamped his hand over the ring.

"What do you know of this?" he said. "Who are

you?"

"Duke Dorian here," said the figure with a gesture

towards Hawkmoon, "calls me the Warrior in Jet and

Gold."

Taller than any of them, covered all in armour and

helm of black and gold, the mysterious Warrior raised

an arm and pointed a metal-clad finger at Tozer. "Hand

him that ring."

"The ring is of glass, nothing more. It is of no

value..."

D'Averc said. "He mentioned rings. Is the ring,

then, what actually transported him here?"

Tozer still hesitated, his face stupid with drink and

with anxiety. "I said that it was glass, of no value . . ."

"By the Runestaff, I command thee!" rumbled the

Warrior in a terrible voice.

With a little nervous movement, Elvereza Tozer

drew off the ring and flung it onto the flagstones.

D'Averc stooped and caught it up, inspecting it. "It's

a crystal," he said, "not glass. A familiar kind of

crystal, too..."

"It is of the same substance from which the device

that brought you here was carved," the Warrior in

Jet and Gold told him. He displayed his own gauntleted

hand and there, on the middle finger, reposed an identi-

cal ring. "And it possesses the same propertiescan

transport a man through the dimensions."

"As I thought," Hawkmoon said. "It was no mental

discipline that enabled you to come here, but a piece of

crystal. Now I'll hang you assuredly! Where did you

get the ring?"

"From the manfrom Mygan of Llandar. I swear

that is the truth. He has otherscan make more!"

Tozer cried. "Do not hang me, I pray you. I will tell

you exactly where to find the old man."

"That we shall have to know," Bowgentle said

thoughtfully, "for we shall have to get to him before

the Dark Empire Lords do. We must have him and his

secretsfor our security."

"What? Must we journey to Granbretan?" D'Averc

said in some astonishment.

"It would seem necessary," Hawkmoon told him.

Chapter Four

FLANA MIKOSEVAAR

AT THE CONCERT, Flana Mikosevaar, Countess

of Kanbery,adjustedher maskof spungoldand

glanced absently about her, seeing the rest of the audi-

ence only as a mass of gorgeous colours. The orchestra

in the center of the ballroom played a wild and com-

plex melody, one of the later works of Granbretan's last

great musician, Londen Johne, who had died two cen-

turies earlier.

The Countess's mask was that of an ornate heron,

its eyes facetted with a thousand fragments of rare

jewels. Her heavy gown was of luminous brocade that

changed its many colours as the light varied. She was

Asrovak Mikosevaar's widow, he who had died under

Dorian Hawkmoon's blade at the first Battle of the

Kamarg. The Muskovian renegade, who had formed

the Vulture Legion to fight on the European mainland

and whose slogan had been Death to Life, was not

mourned by Flana of Kanbery and she bore no grudge

against his killer. He had been her twelfth husband, after

all, and the fierce insanity of the bloodlover had served

her pleasure long enough before he had set off to make

war on the Kamarg. Since then she had had several lov-

ers and her memory of Asrovak Mikosevaar was as

cloudy as all her other memories of men, for Flana

was an inturned creature who barely distinguished be-

tween one person and another.

It was her habit, on the whole, to have husbands

and lovers destroyed when they became inconvenient

to her. An instinct, rather than any intellectual con-

sideration, stopped her from murdering the more pow-

erful ones. This was not to say that she was incapable

of love, for she could love passionately, doting entirely

on the object of her love, but she could not sustain the

emotion for long. Hatred was unknown to her, as was

loyalty. She was for the most part a neutral animal, re-

minding some of a cat and others of a spiderthough

in her grace and beauty she was more reminiscent of

the former. And there were many who bore her hatred,

who planned vengeance against her for a husband

stolen or a brother poisoned, who would have taken

that vengeance had she not been the Countess of Kan-

bery and cousin to the King-Emperor Huon, that im-

mortal monarch who dwelt eternally in his womblike

Throne Globe in the huge throne room of his palace.

She was the center of other attentions, also, since she

was the only surviving kin of the monarch, and certain

elements at court considered that with Huon destroyed

she could be made Queen-Empress and serve their in-

terests.

Unaware of any plots concerning her, Flana of Kan-

bery would have been unperturbed had she been told

of them, for she had not the faintest curiosity about the

affairs of any one of her species, sought only to satisfy

her own obscure desires, to ease the strange, melan-

choly longing in her soul which she could not define.

Many had wondered about her, sought her favors with

the sole object of unmasking her to see what they could

learn in her face, but her face, fair-skinned, beautiful,

the cheeks slightly flushed always, the eyes large and

golden, held a look remote and mysterious, hiding far

more than could any golden mask.

The music ceased, the audience moved, and the col-

ours became alive as the fabrics swirled and masks

turned, nodded, gestured. The delicate masks of the

ladies could be seen gathering around the warlike helms

of those recently returned captains of Granbretan's

great armies. The Countess rose but did not move to-

wards them. Vaguely she recognised some of the helms

particularly that of Meliadus of the Wolf Order, who

had been her husband five years earlier and who had

divorced her (an action she had hardly noticed).

There, too, was Shenegar Trott, lounging on heaped

cushions, served by naked mainland slavegirls, his sil-

ver mask a parody of a human face. And she saw the

mask of the Duke of Lakasdeh, Pra Flenn, barely eigh-

teen and with ten great cities fallen to him, his helm a

grinning dragon head. The others she thought she

knew, and she understood that they were all the mighti-

est warlords, back to celebrate their victories, to divide

up the conquered territories between them, to receive

the congratulations of their Emperor. They laughed

considerably, stood proudly as the ladies flattered them,

all but her ex-husband Meliadus, who appeared to

avoid them and conferred instead with his brother-in-

law Taragorm, Master of the Palace of Time, and the

serpent-masked Baron Kalan of Vitall, Grand Con-

stable of the Order of the Snake and chief scientist to

the King-Emperor. Behind her mask, Flana frowned,

remembering distantly that Meliadus normally avoided

Taragorm...

Chapter Five

TARAGORM

"AND HOW HAVE you fared, Brother Taragorm?"

asked Meliadus with forced cordiality.

The man who had married his sister replied shortly:

"Well." He wondered why Meliadus should approach

him thus when it was common knowledge that Melia-

dus was profoundly jealous of Taragorm's having won

his sister's affections. The huge mask lifted a little super-

ciliously. It was constructed of a monstrous clock of

gilded and enameled brass, with numerals of inlaid

mother-of-pearl and hands of filigree'd silver, the box

in which hung its pendulum extending to the upper

part of Taragorm's broad chest. The box was of some

transparent material, like glass of a bluish tint, and

through it could be seen the golden pendulum swing-

ing back and forth. The whole clock was balanced by

means of a complex mechanism so as to adjust to Tara-

gorm's every movement. It struck the hour, half-hour

and quarter-hour and at midday and midnight chimed

the first eight bars of Sheneven's Temporal Antipathies,

"And how," continued Meliadus in this same un-

usually ingratiating manner, "do the clocks of your

palace fare? All the ticks ticking and the tocks tocking,

mmm?"

It took Taragorm a moment to understand that his

brother-in-law was, in fact, attempting to joke. He

made no reply.

Meliadus cleared bis throat.

Kalan of the serpent mask said: "I hear you are ex-

perimenting with some machine capable of travelling

through time, Lord Taragorm. As it happens, I, too,

have been experimentingwith an engine ..."

"I wished to ask you, brother, about your experi-

ments," Meliadus said to Taragorm. "How far ad-

vanced are they?"

"Reasonably advanced, brother."

"You have moved through time already?"

"Not personally."

"My engine," Baron Kalan continued implacably,

"is capable of moving ships at enormous speeds across

vast distances. Why, we could invade any land on the

globe, no matter how far away..."

"When will the point be reached," Meliadus asked,

moving closer to Taragorm, "when a man can journey

into the past or future?"

Baron Kalan shrugged and turned away. "I must re-

turn to my laboratories," he said. "The King-Emperor

has commissioned me urgently to complete my work.

Good day, my lords."

"Good day," said Meliadus absently. "Now, brother,

you must tell me more of your workshow me, per-

haps, how far you have progressed."

"I must," Taragorm replied facetiously. "But my

work is secret, brother. I cannot take you to the Palace

of Time without the permission of King Huon. That

you must seek first."

"Surely unnecessary for me to seek such permis-

sion?"

"None is so great that he can act without the bless-

ing of our King-Emperor."

"But the matter is of extraordinary importance,

brother," Meliadus said, his tone almost desperate, al-

most wheedling. "Our enemies have escaped us, prob-

ably to another era of the Earth. They offer a threat to

Granbretan's security!"

"You speak of that handful of ruffians whom you

failed to defeat at the Battle of the Kamarg?"

"They were almost conqueredonly science or sor-

cery saved them from our vengeance. No one blames

me for my failure ..."

"Save yourself? You do not blame yourself?"

"No blame to me, at all, from any quarter. I would

finish the matter, that's all. I would rid the Empire of

her enemies. Where's the fault in that?"

"I have heard it whispered that your battle is more

private than public, that you have made foolish com-

promises in order to pursue a personal vendetta against

those who dwell in the Kamarg."

"That is an opinion, brother," Meliadus said, re-

straining with difficulty his chagrin. "But I fear only

for our Empire's well-being."

"Then tell King Huon of this fear and he may then

permit you to visit my palace." Taragorm turned away,

as he did so his mask beginning to boom out the

hour. Further conversation was momentarily impossi-

ble. Meliadus made to follow him, then changed his

mind, walking, fuming, from the hall.

Surrounded now by young lords, each seeking to at-

tract her deadly attentions, Countess Flana Mikosevaar

watched Baron Meliadus depart.

By the impatient manner of his gait, she assumed

him to be in uneven temper. Then she forgot him as

she returned her attention to the flatteries of her at-

tendants, listening not to the words (which were fa-

miliar to her) but to the voices themselves which were

like old, favorite instruments.

Taragorm, now, was conversing with Shenegar Trott.

"I am to present myself to the King-Emperor in the

morning," Trott told the Master of the Palace of Time.

"Some commission, I believe, that is at this moment

a secret known only to himself. We must keep busy,

Lord Taragorm, eh?"

"Indeed, we must, Count Shenegar, lest boredom en-

gulfs us all."

Chapter Six

THE AUDIENCE

NEXT MORNING Meliadus waited impatiently out-

side the King-Emperor's throne room. He had re-

quested an audience the previous evening and had been

told to present himself at eleven o'clock. It was now

twelve and the doors had not yet opened to admit

him. The doors, towering into the dimness of the huge

roof, were encrusted with jewels that made up a mo-

saic of images of ancient things. The fifty mantis-

masked guards who blocked them, stood stock still

with flame-lances ready at a precise angle. Meliadus

strode up and down before them; behind him, the glit-

tering corridors of the King Emperor's hallucinatory

palace.

Meliadus attempted to fight back his feelings of re-

sentment that the King Emperor had not granted him

an immediate audience. After all, was he not paramount

Warlord of Europe? Had it not been under his direction

that the armies of Granbretan had conquered a conti-

nent? Had he not taken those same armies into the Mid-

dle East and added further territories to the domain of

the Dark Empire? Why should the King-Emperor seek

to insult him in this manner? Meliadus, first of Gran-

bretan's warriors, should have priority over all lesser

mortals. He suspected a plot against him. From what

Taragorm and the others had said, they judged him to

be losing his grip. They were fools if they did not realise

the threat that Hawkmoon, Count Brass and Huillam

D'Averc offered. Let them escape their deserved rec-

koning and it would inflame others to rebel, make the

work of conquest less speedy. Surely King Huon had

not listened to those who spoke against him? The King

Emperor was wise, the King Emperor was objective.

If he were not, then he was unfit to rule ...

Meliadus dismissed the thought in horror.

At last the jewelled doors began to move open until

they were wide enough to admit a single manand

through this crack strode a jaunty, corpulent figure.

"Shenegar Trott!" exclaimed Meliadus. "Is it you

who has kept me waiting so long?"

Trott's silver mask glinted in the light from the cor-

ridors. "My apologies, Baron Meliadus. My deep apolo-

gies. There were many details to discuss. But I am

finished now. A mission, my dear BaronI have a

mission! Such a mission, ha, ha!"

And before Meliadus could tax him further on the

nature of his mission, he had swept away.

From within the Throne Room now issued a youth-

ful, vibrant voice, the voice of the King Emperor him-

self.

"You may join me now, Baron Meliadus."

The mantis warriors parted their ranks and allowed

the baron to pass through them and into the Throne

Room.

Into that gigantic hall of blazing color, where hung

the bright banners of Granbretan's five hundred noblest

families, which was lined on either side by a thousand

statue-still mantis guards, stepped Baron Meliadus of

Kroiden and abased himself.

Ornate gallery upon ornate gallery stretched up-

wards and upwards to the concave ceiling of the hall.

The armour of the soldiers of the Order of the Mantis

shone black and green and gold, and in the distance,

as he rose to his feet, Baron Meliadus saw his King

Emperor's Throne Globe, a white speck against the

green and purple of the walls behind it.

Walking slowly, it took Meliadus twenty minutes to

reach the globe and once again abase himself. The

globe contained a sluggishly swirling liquid that was

milk-white but which was sometimes streaked with iri-

descent veins of blood-red and blue. At the center of

this fluid was curled King Huon himself, a wrinkled,

ancient, immortal foetus-like creature in which the

only living things seemed the eyes, black, sharp and

malicious.

"Baron Meliadus," came the golden voice that had

been torn from the throat of a beautiful youth to furn-

ish King Huon with speech.

"Great Majesty," murmured Meliadus. "I thank you

for your graciousness in permitting this audience."

"And for what purpose did you desire the audience,

baron?" The tone was sardonic, a trifle impatient. "Do

you seek to hear us praise again your efforts in Eu-

rope on our behalf?"

"The accomplishment is enough, noble sire. I seek to

warn you that danger still threatens us in Europe . . ."

"What? You have not made the continent wholly

ours?"

"You know that I have, Great Emperor, from one

coast to the other, to the very borders of Muskovia and

beyond. Few live who are not totally our slaves. But I

refer to those who fled us ..."

"Hawkmoon and his friends?"

"The same, mighty King Emperor."

"You chased them away. They offer us no threat."

"While they live, they threaten us, noble sire, for

their escape could give others hope, and hope we must

destroy in all we conquer lest we are troubled by risings

against your discipline."

"You have dealt with risings before. You are used to

them. We fear, Baron Meliadus, that you may be for-

saking your King Emperor's interests in favor of per-

sonal interests..."

"My personal interests are your interests, Great King

Emperor, your interests are my personal interests

they are indivisible. Am I not the most loyal of your

servants?"

"Perhaps you believe yourself to be so, Baron Me-

liadus ..."

"What do you mean, Powerful Monarch?"

"We mean that your obsession with the German

Hawkmoon and that handful of villains he has as

friends could not necessarily be in our interest. They

will not returnand if they should dare return, why,

we can deal with them then. We fear that it is vengeance

alone which motivates you and that you have rational-

ised your thirst for vengeance into a belief that the

whole Dark Empire is threatened by those you would

be avenged upon."

"No! No, Prince of All! I swear that is not so!"

"Let them stay where they are, Meliadus. Deal with

them only if they reappear."

"Great King, they offer a potential threat to the Em-

pire. There are other powers involved who support

themelse where could they have obtained the ma-

chine which plucked them away when we were about

to destroy them? I cannot offer positive evidence now

but if you would let me work with Taragorm to use

his knowledge to discover the whereabouts of Hawk-

moon and his companythen I will find that evidence

and you will believe me!"

"We are dubious, Meliadus!" There was a grim note

now in the melodious voice. "But if it does not inter-

fere with the other duties at court we intend to give

you, you may visit Lord Taragorm's palace and seek

his assistance in your attempts to locate your ene-

mies ..."

"Our enemies, Prince of All..."

"We shall see, baron, we shall see."

"I thank you for your faith in me, Great Majesty. I

will"

"The audience is not ended, Baron Meliadus, for we

have not yet told you of those duties we mentioned."

"I shall be honoured to perform them, noble sire."

"You spoke of our security being in peril from the

Kamarg. Well, we believe that we may be threatened

from other quarters. To be precise we are anxious that

the East may promise us a fresh enemy that could be

as powerful as the Dark Empire itself. Now, this could

have something to do with your own suspicions con-

cerning Hawkmoon and his supposed allies, for it is

possible that we entertain representatives of those allies

this day at our court..."

"Great King Emperor, if that be so ..."

"Let us continue, Baron Meliadus!"

"I apologize, noble sire."

"Last night there appeared at the gates of Londra

two strangers who claimed to be emissaries from the

Empire of Asiacommunista. Their arrival was mys-

teriousindicating to us that they have methods of

transport unknown to us, for they told us they had left

their capital not two hours before. It is our opinion that

they have come here, as we would visit others in whose

territories we were interested, to spy out our strength.

We, in turn, must try to gauge their power, for the time

must come, even if it is not soon, when we shall be in

conflict with them. Doubtless our conquests in the Near

and Middle East have become known to them and they

are nervous. We must discover all we can about them,

try to convince them that we mean them no harm, try

to persuade them to let us return emissaries to their

domain. Should that prove possible, we should want

you, Meliadus, to be one of those emissaries, for you

have greater experience of such diplomacy than any

other among our servants."

"This is disturbing news, Great Emperor."

"Aye, but we must take what advantage we can

from the events. You will be their guide, treat them

courteously, try to draw them out, make them expand

upon the extent of their power and the size of their

territories, the number of warriors their monarch com-

mands, the power of their weaponry and the capabilities

of their transports. This visit, Baron Meliadus, offers, .

as you can see, a much more important potential threat

than any which may come from the vanished castle of

Count Brass."

"Perhaps, noble sire..."

"Nocertainly, Baron Meliadus!" The prehensible

tongue flickered from the wrinkled mouth. "That is to

be your most important task. If you have any time to

spare, that can be devoted to your vendetta against

Dorian Hawkmoon and the rest."

"But, Mighty King Emperor ..."

"Bide our instructions well, Meliadus. Do not dis-

appoint us." The tone was one of menace. The tongue

touched the tiny jewel that floated near the head and

the globe began to dull until it had the appearance of a

solid, black sphere.

Chapter Seven

THE EMISSARIES

BARON MELIADUS COULD still not rid himself of

the feeling that his King Emperor had lost trust in

him, that King Huon was deliberately finding means of

curtailing his own schemes regarding the inhabitants of

Castle Brass. True the king had made a convincing case

for Meliadus's need to involve himself with the strange

emissaries from Asiacommunista, had even flattered

him by hinting that only Meliadus could deal with the

problem, and would have the opportunity, later, of be-

coming not only the First Warrior of Europe, but

also Paramount Warlord of Asiacommunista. But Me-

liadus's interest in Asiacommunista was not as great

as his interest in Castle Brassfor he felt that there

was evidence for believing Castle Brass to be a con-

siderable threat to the Dark Empire, whereas his mon-

arch had no evidence to suppose that Asiacommunista

threatened them.

Clad in his finest mask and most sumptuous gar-

ments, Meliadus made his way through the shining cor-

ridors of the palace towards the hall where the previous

day he had sought out his brother-in-law Taragorm.

Now the hall was to be used for another receptionto

welcome, with due ceremony, the visitors from the east.

As the King Emperor's deputy, Baron Meliadus

should have considered himself fully honoured, for it

gave him prestige second only to King Huon's; but

even this knowledge did not entirely ease his vengeful

mind.

He entered the hall to the sound of fanfares from the

galleries that ran around the walls. All the noblest of

Granbretan were assembled here, their finery splendid

and dazzling. The emissaries from Asiacommunista

had not yet been announced. Baron Meliadus walked

to the dais on which were placed three golden thrones,

mounted the steps and seated himself on the throne in

the middle. The sea of nobles bowed before him and

the hall was silent in anticipation. Meliadus himself

had not yet met the emissaries. Captain Viel Phong of

the Order of the Mantis had been their escort up to

now.

Meliadus looked about the hall, noting the presence

of Taragorm, of Flana, Countess of Kanbery, of Adaz

Promp and Mygel Hoist, of Jerek Nankenseen and

Brenal Farnu. He was puzzled for a moment, wonder-

ing what was wrong. Then he realised that of all the

great warrior nobles, only Shenegar Trott was missing.

He remembered that the fat count had spoken of a

mission. Had he left to fulfill it already? Why had not

he, Meliadus, been informed of Trott's expedition?

Were they keeping secrets from him? Had he truly lost

the trust of his King Emperor? His brain in turmoil,

Meliadus turned as the fanfares sounded again and the

doors of the hall opened to admit two incredibly garbed

figures.

Automatically Meliadus rose to greet them, aston-

ished at the sight of them, for they were barbaric and

grotesquegiants of over seven feet high, walking

stiffly like automatons. Were they, indeed, human? he

wondered. It had not occurred to him that they would

not be. Were these some monstrous creation of the

Tragic Millenium? Were the folk of Asiacommunista

not men at all?

Like the people of Granbretan, they wore masks

(he assumed those constructions on their shoulders

were masks) so that it was impossible to tell if human

faces were within them. They were tall things, roughly

oblong in shape, of brightly painted leather in blues,

greens, yellows and reds, swirling patterns on which

had been painted devil featuresglaring eyes and

teeth-filled mouths. Bulky fur cloaks hung to the

ground and their clothes were leather, painted to trav-

esty human limbs and organs, reminding Meliadus of

the coloured sketches he had once seen in a medical

text.

The herald announced them:

"The Lord Kominsar Kaow Shalang Gatt, Heredi-

tary Representative of the President Emperor long

Mang Shen of Asiacommunista and Prince Elect of the

Hordes of the Sun."

The first of the emissaries stepped forward, his fur

cloak drifting back to reveal shoulders that were at least

four feet in width, the sleeves of his coat of bulky

multi-colored silk, his right hand holding a staff of

gem-encrusted gold that might have been the Rune-

staff itself, the care he took of it.

"The Lord Kominsar Orkai Heong Phoon, Heredi-

tary Representative of the President Emperor Jong

Mang Shen of Asiacommunista and Prince Elect of

the Hordes of the Sun."

The second man (if man he was) stepped forward,

similarly garbed but without a staff.

"I welcome the noble emissaries of the President Em-

peror Jong Mang Shen and let them know that all

Granbretan is at their disposal to do with as they wish."

Meliadus spread his arms wide.

The man with the staff paused before the dais and

began to speak in a strange, lilting accent as if the

language of Granbretan, and indeed all Europe and

the Near East, was not native to him.

"We thank you most graciously for your welcome

and would beg to know what mighty man addresses us."

"I am the Baron Meliadus of Kroiden, Grand Con-

stable of the Order of the Wolf, Paramount Warlord of

Europe, Deputy to the Immortal King Emperor Huon

the Eighteenth, Ruler of Granbretan, of Europe and

all the Realms of the Middle Sea, Grand Constable of

the Order of the Mantis, Controller of Destinies, Mold-

er of Histories, Feared and Powerful Prince of All. I

greet you as he would greet you, speak as he would

speak, act in accord with all his wishes, for you must

know that, being immortal, he cannot leave the mystic

Throne Globe which preserves him and which is pro-

tected by the Thousand who guard him night and

day." Meliadus thought it best to dwell for a moment

upon the invulnerability of the King Emperor, to im-

press the visitors, should it have occurred to them, that

an attempt on King Huon's life was impossible. Me-

liadus indicated the twin thrones on either side of

him. "I ask yoube seated, be entertained."

The two grotesque creatures mounted the steps and,

with some difficulty, placed themselves in the golden

chairs. There would be no banquet, for the people of

Granbretan regarded eating, on the whole, as a per-

sonal matter, for it could necessitate the removal of

their masks and the horror of displaying their naked

faces. Only thrice a year did they shed in public their

masks and garments in the security of the Throne

Room itself where they would indulge in a week-long

orgy before the greedy eyes of King Huon, taking part

in disgusting and bloody ceremonies with names exist-

ing only in the languages of their various Orders and

which were never referred to save upon those three

occasions.

Baron Meliadus clapped his hands for the entertain-

ments to begin, the courtiers parted like a curtain and

took their places on the two sides of the hall, then on

came the acrobats and the tumblers, the Harlequins,

Pierrots and Columbines, while wild music sounded

from the gallery above. Human pyramids swayed, bent

and suddenly collapsed to reform again in even more

complex assemblages, clowns capered and played upon

one another the dangerous jokes that were expected of

them, while the acrobats and tumblers cavorted around

them at incredible speeds, walking on wires stretched

between the galleries, performing on trapezes sus-

pended high above all the heads of the audience.

Flana of Kanbery did not watch the tumblers and

failed to see any humour in the actions of the clowns.

Instead she turned her beautiful heron mask in the di-

rection of the strangers and regarded them with what

was for her unusual curiosity, thinking dimly that she

would like to know them better, for they offered the

possibility of a unique diversion, particularly if, as she

suspected, they were not entirely manlike.

Meliadus, who could not rid himself of the suspicion

that he was being prejudiced against by his king and

plotted against by his fellow nobles, made a mighty at-

tempt to be civil to the visitors. When he wished, he

could impress strangers (as he had once impressed

Count Brass) with his dignity, his wit and his manli-

ness, but this night it was an effort and he feared that

the effort could be detected in his tone.

"Do you find the entertainment to your liking, my

lords of Asiacommunista?" he would sayand be met

with a slight inclination of the huge heads. "Are the

clowns not amusing?"and there would be a movement

of the hand from Kaow Shalang Gatt, who bore the

golden staffor: "Such skill! We brought those con-

jurers from our territories in Italiaand those tumblers

were once the property of a Duke of Krahkovyou

must have entertainers of equal skill at your own Em-

peror's court . . ." and the other, called Orkai Heong

Phoon, would move his body in its seat, as if in dis-

comfort. The result was to increase Baron Meliadus's

sense of impatience, make him feel that these peculiar

creatures somehow judged themselves above him or

were bored by his attempts at civility, and it became

more and more difficult for him to continue the light

conversation that was the only conversation possible

while the music played.

At length he rose and clapped his hands. "Enough

of this. Dismiss these entertainers. Let us have more

exotic sport." And he relaxed a trifle as the sexual gym-

nasts entered the hall and began to perform for the

delight of the depraved appetites of the Dark Empire.

He chuckled, recognizing some of the performers,

pointing them out to his guests. "There's one who was a

Prince of Magyariaand those two, the twins, were the

sisters of a king in Turkia. I captured the blonde one

there myselfand the stallion you seein a Bulgarian

stable. Many of them I personally trained." But though

the entertainment relaxed the tortured nerves of Baron

Meliadus of Kroiden, the emissaries of the President

Emperor Jong Mang Shen seemed as unmoved and as

taciturn as ever.

At last the performance was over and the entertain-

ers retired (to the emissaries' relief, it seemed). Baron

Meliadus, much refreshed, wondering if the creatures

were of flesh and blood at all, gave the order for the ball

to commence.

"Now gentlemen," said he rising, "shall we circulate

about the floor so that you may meet those who have

assembled to honour you and be honoured by you."

Moving stiffly,the emissariesof Asiacommunista

followed Baron Meliadus, towering over the heads of

even the tallest in the hall.

"Would you dance?" asked the baron.

"We do not dance, I regret," said Kaow Shalang Gatt

tonelessly, and since etiquette demanded that the guests

dance before the others could, no dancing was done.

Meliadus fumed. What did King Huon expect of him?

How could he deal with these automata?

"Do you not have dances in Asiacommunista?" he

said, his voice trembling with suppressed anger.

"Not of the sort I suppose you to prefer," replied Or-

kai Heong Phoon, and though there was no inflection in

his voice, again Baron Meliadus was given to think

that such activities were beneath the dignity of the

Asiacommunistan nobles. It was becoming, he thought

grimly, exceedingly difficult to remain polite toward

these proud strangers. Meliadus was not used to sup-

pressing his feelings where mere foreigners were con-

cerned and he promised himself the pleasure of dealing

with these two in particular should he be given the

privilege of leading any army that conquered the "Far

East.

Baron Meliadus paused before Adaz Promp who

bowed to the two guests. "May I present one of our

mightiest warlords, the Count Adaz Promp, Grand

Constable of the Order of the Hound, Prince of Parye

and Protector of Munchein, Commander of Ten Thou-

sand." The ornate dog-mask inclined itself again.

"Count Adaz led the force that helped us conquer

all the European mainland in two years when we had

allowed for twenty," Meliadus said. "His hounds are in-

vincible."

"The baron flatters me," said Adaz Promp, "I am

sure you have mightier legions in Asiacommunista, my

lords."

"Perhaps, I do not know. Your army sounds as

fierce as our dragon-hounds," Kaow Shalang Gatt said.

"Dragon-hounds? And what are they?" Meliadus en-

quired, remembering at last what his king had desired

him to do.

"You have none in Granbretan?"

"Perhaps we call them by another name? Could you

describe them?"

Kaow Shalang Gatt made a movement with his staff.

"They are about twice the height of a manone of

our menwith seventy teeth that are like ivory razors.

They are very hairy and have claws like a cat's. We

use them to hunt those reptiles we have not yet trained

for war."

"I see," Meliadus murmured, thinking that such war-

beasts would require special tactics to defeat. "And

how many such dragon-hounds have you trained for

battle?"

"A good number," said his guest.

They moved on, meeting other nobles and their lad-

ies, and each was prepared with a question such as

Adaz Promp had asked, to give Meliadus the oppor-

tunity of extracting information from the emissaries.

But it became plain that although they were willing to

indicate that their forces and weaponry were mighty,

they were too cautious to provide details as to numbers

and capacity. Meliadus realised that it would take more

than one evening to gather that sort of information,

and he had the feeling that it would be hard to get it

at all.

"Your science must be very sophisticated," he said

as they moved through the throng. "More advanced

than ours, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," said Orkai Heong Phoon, "but I know

so little of your science. It would be interesting to

compare such things."

"Indeed it would," agreed Meliadus. "I heard, for in-

stance, that your flying machine brought you several

thousand miles in a very short space of time."

"It was not a flying machine," said Orkai Heong

Phoon.

"No? Then how...?"

"We call it an Earth Chariotit moves through the

ground..."

"And how is it propelled? What moves the earth

away from it?"

"We are not scientists," put in Kaow Shalang Gatt.

"We do not pretend to understand the workings of our

machines. We leave such things to the lowlier castes."

Baron Meliadus, feeling slighted again, came to a

halt before the beautiful heron mask of the Countess

Flana Mikosevaar. He announced her and she curtsied.

"You are very tall," she said in her throaty murmur.

"Yes, very tall."

Baron Meliadus attempted to move on, embarrassed

by the countess as he had half-suspected he would be.

He had only introduced her to fill the silence following

the visitor's last remark. But Flana reached and

touched Orkai Heong Phoon's shoulder. "And your

shoulders are very broad," she said. The emissary made

no reply, but stood stock still. Had she insulted him?

Meliadus wondered. He would have felt some satisfac-

tion if she had. He did not expect the Asiacommunistan

to complain, for he realised it was as much in the

man's interests to remain on good terms with Gran-

bretan's nobles as it was in Granbretan's interests, at

this stage, to remain on good terms with them. "May I

entertain you in some way?" asked Flana, gesturing

vaguely.

"Thank you, but I can think of nothing at this mo-

ment," said the man, and they moved on.

Astonished, Flana watched them continue their

progress. She had never been rejected thus before and

she was intrigued. She decided to explore these pos-

sibilities further, when she could find a suitable time.

They were odd, these taciturn creatures, with their stiff

movements. They were like men of metal, she thought.

Could anything, she wondered, produce a human emo-

tion in them?

Their great masks of painted leather swayed above

the heads of the crowd as Meliadus introduced them to

Jerek Nankenseen and his lady, the Duchess Falmoliva

Nankenseen who, in her youth, had ridden to battle

with her husband.

And when the tour was completed, Baron Meliadus

returned to his golden throne wondering, with increased

frustration, where his rival, Shenegar Trott, had disap-

peared to, and why King Huon should have deigned

not to trust him with the information of Trott's move-

ments. He wanted urgently to rid himself of his charges

and hurry to Taragorm's laboratories to discover what

progress the Master of the Palace of Time had made

and whether there was any possibility of discovering

the whereabouts in time or space of the hated Castle

Brass.

Chapter Eight

MELIADUS AT THE

PALACE OF TIME

EARLY NEXT MORNING, after an unsatisfactory

night in which he had given up sleep and failed to find

pleasure, Baron Meliadus left to visit Taragorm at the

Palace of Time.

In Londra there were few open streets. Houses, pal-

aces, warehouses and barracks were all connected by

enclosed passages which, in the richer sections of the

city, were of bright colours as if the walls were made of

enamelled glass or, in the poorer sections, of oily, dark

stone.

Meliadus was borne through these passages in a

curtained litter by a dozen girl slaves, all naked and

with rouged bodies (the only kind of slaves Meliadus

would have to serve him). His intention was to visit

Taragorm before those boorish nobles of Asiacommu-

nista were awake. It could be, of course, that they did

represent a nation helping Hawkmoon and the rest, but

he had no proof. If his hopes of Taragorm's discov-

eries were realised, he might gain that proof, present it

to King Huon, vindicate himself and perhaps, too, rid

himself of the troublesome task of playing host to the

emissaries.

The passages widened and strange sounds began to

be hearddull booms and regular, mechanical noises.

Meliadus knew that he heard Taragorm's clocks.

As he neared the entrance to the Palace of Time, the

noise became deafening as a thousand gigantic pendu-

lums swung at a thousand different rates, as machinery

whirred and shifted, as jacks struck bells and gongs

and cymbals, mechanical birds cried and mechanical

voices spoke. It was an incredibly confusing din for, al-

though the palace contained some several thousand

clocks of differing sizes, it was itself a gigantic clock,

the chief regulator for the rest, and above all the other

sounds came the slow, ponderous, echoing clack of

the massive escapement lever, far above near the roof,

and the hissing of the monstrous pendulum as it swung

through the air in the Hall of the Pendulum where

Taragorm conducted most of his experiments.

Meliadus's litter arrived at last before a relatively

small set of bronze doors and mechanical men sprang

forward to block the way, a mechanical voice cutting

through the din of the clocks to demand:

"Who visits Lord Taragorm at the Palace of Tune?"

"Baron Meliadus, his brother-in-law, with the per-

mission of the King Emperor," replied the baron,

forced to shout.

The doors remained closed for a good deal longer,

Meliadus thought, than they should have done, then

opened slowly to admit the litter.

Now they passed into a hall with curved walls of

metal, like the base of a clock, and the noise increased.

The hall was full of ticks and clacks and whirrs and

booms and thumps and swishes and clangs and, had

not the baron's head been encased in its wolf-helm, he

would have pressed his hands to his ears. As it was he

began to be convinced that shortly he would become

deaf.

They passed through this hall into another swathed

in tapestries (inevitably representing in highly formal-

ised design a hundred different time-keeping devices)

which muffled the worst of the noise. Here the girl

slaves lowered the litter and Baron Meliadus pushed

back the curtains with gauntleted hands and stood there

to await the coming of his brother-in-law.

Again (he felt) he had to wait an unconscionable

time before the man appeared, stepping sedately

through the doors at the far end of the hall, his huge

clock mask nodding.

"It is early, brother," said Taragorm. "I regret I kept

you waiting, but I had not breakfasted."

Meliadus reflected that Taragorm had never had a

decent regard for the niceties of etiquette, then he

snapped: "My apologies, brother, but I was anxious to

see your work."

"I am flattered. This way, brother."

Taragorm turned and left through the door he had

entered, Meliadus close on his heels.

Through more tapestried passages they moved until

at last Taragorm pressed his weight against the bar

locking a huge door. The door opened and the air was

suddenly full of the sound of a great wind; the noise of

a gigantic drum sounding a painfully slow beat.

Automatically Meliadus looked up and saw the pen-

dulum hurtling through the air above himits bob

fifty tons of brass fashioned in the form of an ornate,

blazing sun, creating a draft that fluttered all the tap-

estries in the halls behind them and raised Meliadus's

cloak like a pair of heavy silken wings. The pendulum

supplied the wind and the hidden escapement lever,

high above, supplied the sound like a drum. Across

the vast Hall of the Pendulum was stretched an array

of machines in various stages of construction, of bench-

es containing laboratory equipment, of instruments of

brass and bronze and silver, of clouds of fine golden

wires, of webs of jewelled thread, of time-keeping in-

strumentswater-clocks, pendulum movements, lever

movements, ball movements, watches, chronometers,

orreries, astrolabes, leaf-clocks, skeleton clocks, table

clocks, sun dialsand working on all these were Tara-

gorm's slaves, scientists and engineers captured from a

score of nations, many of them the finest of their lands.

Even as Meliadus watched, there would come a

flash of purple light from one part of the hall, a shower

of green sparks from another, a gout of scarlet smoke

from elsewhere. He saw a black machine crumble to

dust and its attendant cough, tumble forward into the

dust and vanish.

"And what was that?" came a laconic voice from

nearby. Meliadus turned to see that Kalan of Vitall,

Chief Scientist to the King-Emperor, was also visiting

Taragorm.

"An experiment in accelerated time," said Taragorm.

"We can create the process, but we cannot control it.

Nothing, so far, has worked. See there . . ." he pointed

to a large ovoid machine of yellow, glassy substance . . .

"that creates the opposite effect and again, unfortu-

nately, cannot be controlled as yet. The man you see

beside it," he indicated what Meliadus had taken to be

a lifelike statue (some mechanical figure from a clock

being repaired), "has been frozen thus for weeks!"

"And what of travelling through time?" Meliadus

said.

"Over there," Taragorm replied. "You see the set of

silver boxes? Each of those houses an instrument we

have created that can hurl an object through tune,

either back or forthwe are not sure for what dis-

tances. Living things, however, suffer much when

undergoing the same journey. Few of the slaves or

animals we have used have lived, and none have not

suffered considerable agonies and deformities."

"If only we had believed Tozer," Kalan said, "per-

haps then we might have discovered the secret of trav-

elling through time. We should not have made such a

joke of himbut, really, I could not believe that that

scribbling buffoon had truly discovered the secret!"

"What's that? What?" Meliadus had heard nothing

of Tozer. "Tozer the playwright. I thought him dead!

What did he know of time travel?"

"He reappeared, trying to reinstate himself in the

King Emperor's graces with a story that he had learned

how to journey through time from an old man in the

Westa mental trick, he said. We brought him here,

laughingly asked him to prove the truth of his words

by travelling through time. Whereupon, Baron Melia-

dus, he vanished!"

"Youyou made no effort to hold him ... ?"

"It was impossible to believe him," Taragorm put

in. "Would you have?"

"I would have been more careful in testing him."

"It was in his interest to return, we thought. Besides,

brother, we were not clutching at straws."

"What do you mean by thatbrother?" retorted Me-

liadus.

"I mean that we are working in the spirit of pure

scientific research, whereas you require immediate re-

sults in order to continue your vendetta against Castle

Brass."

"I, brother, am a warriora man of action. It does

not suit me to sit about and play with toys or brood

over books." Honour satisfied, Baron Meliadus re-

turned his attention to the subject of Tozer.

"You say the playwright learned the secret from an

old man in the West?"

"So he said," replied Kalan. "But I think he was

lying. He told us it was a mental trick he had devel-

oped, but we did not think him capable of such disci-

pline. Still, the fact remains, he faded and vanished be-

fore our eyes."

"Why was I not told of this?" Meliadus moaned in

frustration.

"You were still on the mainland when it took place,"

Taragorm pointed out. "Besides, we did not think it

was of interest to a man of action like yourself."

"But his knowledge could have clarified your work,"

Meliadus said. "You seem so casual about having lost

the opportunity."

Taragorm shrugged. "What can we do about it now?

We are progressing little by little . . ." somewhere there

was a bang, a man screamed and a mauve and orange

flash illuminated the room . . . "and we shall soon

have tamed time as we are taming space."

"In a thousand years, perhaps!" snorted Meliadus.

"The Westan old man in the West? We must lo-

cate him. What is his name?"

"Tozer told us only that he was called Mygana

sorcerer of considerable wisdom. But, as I said, I be-

lieve he was lying. After all, what's in the West save

desolation? Nothing has lived there but malformed

creatures since the Tragic Millenium."

"We must go there," Meliadus said. "We must leave

no stone unturned, no chance overlooked ..."

"I'll not journey to those bleak mountains on a wild

goose chase," said Kalan with a shudder. "I have my

work to do here, fitting my new engines into ships; ships

to enable us to conquer the rest of the world as swiftly

as we conquered Europe. Besides, I thought you, too,

had responsibilities at home, Baron Meliadusour visi-

tors ..."

"Damn the visitors. They cost me precious time."

"Soon I shall be able to offer you all the time you

require, brother," Taragorm told him. "Give us a little

while..."

"Bah! I can learn nothing here. Your crumbling

boxes and exploding machines make spectacular sights,

but they are useless to me. Play your games, brother,

as you please. I'll bid you good morning!"

Feeling relieved that he no longer had to be polite

to his hated brother-in-law, Meliadus turned and

stalked out of the Hall of the Pendulum, through the

tapestried corridors and halls, back to his litter.

He flung himself into it, grunted for the girls to bear

him away.

As he was borne back to Ms own palace, Meliadus

considered the new information.

At the first opportunity he would rid himself of his

charges and journey to the West, to see if he could re-

trace Tozer's steps and discover the old man who held

not only the secret of time, but also the means of his at

last exacting his full vengeance upon Castle Brass.

Chapter Nine

INTERLUDE AT

CASTLE BRASS

AT CASTLE BRASS, in the courtyard, Count Brass

and Oladahn of the Bulgar Mountains, straddled their

horned horses and rode out, through the red-roofed

town, and away to the fens, as was their habit now

every morning.

Count Brass had lost some of his brooding manner

and had begun to desire company again since the visit

of the Warrior in Jet and Gold.

Elvereza Tozer was held captive in a suite of rooms

in one of the towers and had seemed content when

Bowgentle had given him supplies of paper, pens and

ink and told him to earn his keep with a play, promis-

ing him an appreciative, if small audience.

"I wonder how Hawkmoon fares," he said, as they

rode together in pleasurable companionship. "I regret

that I did not draw the straw which would have en-

abled me to accompany him."

"I, too," said Oladahn. "D'Averc was lucky. A shame

there were only two rings that could be usedTozer's

and the Warrior's. If they return with the rest, then

we'll all be able to make war on the Dark Empire . . ."

"It was a dangerous idea, friend Oladahn, to sug-

gest, as the Warrior suggested, they visit Granbretan

itself and try to discover Mygan of Llandar in Yel."

"I have heard it said that it is often safer to dwell in

the lion's lair than outside it," Oladahn said.

"Safer still to live in a land where there are no

lions," Count Brass retorted with a small quirk of his

lips.

"Well, I hope the lion does not devour them, that is

all, Count Brass," said Oladahn frowning. "It may be

perverse of me, but I still envy him his opportunity."

"I have a feeling that we shall not long have to put

up with this inaction," Count Brass said, guiding his

horse along the narrow track between the reeds, "for it

seems to me that our security is threatened from not one

quarter but many..."

"It is not a possibility that worries me overmuch,"

said Oladahn, "but I fear for Yisselda, Bowgentle and

the ordinary folk of the town, for they have no relish

for the sort of activity we enjoy."

The two men rode on to the sea, enjoying the soli-

tude and at the same tune yearning for the din and the

action of battle.

Count Brass began to wonder if it .were not worth

smashing the crystal device that was their security,

plunging Castle Brass back into the world they had

left, and making a fight of it, even though there was

no chance of defeating the hordes of the Dark Empire.

Chapter Ten

THE SIGHTS OF LONDRA

THE ORNITHOPTER'S WINGS thrashed at the air as

the flying machine hovered over the spires of Londra.

It was a large machine, built to carry four or five

people, and its metal bulk gleamed with scrollwork

and baroque designs.

Meliadus bent his head over the side and pointed

downward. His guests leaned forward also, barely po-

lite. It seemed that their tall, heavy masks would fall

from their shoulders if they leaned any further.

"There you see the palace of King Huon where you

are staying," Meliadus said, indicating the crazy mag-

nificence of his King Emperor's domicile. It towered

above all the other buildings and was set apart from

them, in the very center of the city. Unlike most other

buildings, it could not be reached by a series of corri-

dors. Its four towers, glowing with a light of deep gold,

were even now above their heads, though they sat in

the ornithopter, well above the tops of the other build-

ings. Its tiers were thick with bas-reliefs depicting all

manner of dark activities beloved of the Empire. Gi-

gantic and grotesque statues were placed on corners

of parapets, seeming about to topple into the courtyards

far, far below. The palace was blotched with every

imaginable colour and all the colours clashed in such

a way as to make the eye ache in a matter of seconds.

"The Palace of Time," said Meliadus, indicating the

superbly ornamented palace that was also a giant clock,

and then: "My own palace." This was brooding black,

faced with silver. "The river you see is, of course, the

River Tayme." The river was thick with traffic. Its

blood-red waters bore barges of bronze, ebony and

teak ships emblazoned with precious metal and semi-

precious jewels, with huge white sails on which designs

had been sewn or printed.

"Further to your left," said Baron Meliadus, deeply

resenting this silly task, "is our Hanging Tower. You

will see that it appears to hang from the sky and is not

rooted upon the ground. This was the result of an ex-

periment of one of our sorcerers who managed to raise

the tower a few feet but could raise it no further. Then,

it appeared, he could not recall it to Earthso it has

remained thus ever since."

He showed them the quays where the great, garnet-

burnished battleships of Granbretan dispensed their

stolen goods; the Quarter of the Unmasked where lived

the scum of the city; the dome of the huge theatre

where once Tozer's plays had been performed; the

Temple of the Wolf, headquarters of his own order,

with a monstrous and grotesque stone wolf head domi-

nating the curve of the roof, and the various other tem-

ples with similarly grotesque beast heads carved in

stone and weighing many tons.

For a dull day they flew over the city, stopping only

to refuel the ornithopter and change pilots, with Melia-

dus growing hourly impatient. He showed them all the

wonders that filled that ancient and unpleasant city,

seeking, as his King Emperor had demanded, to im-

press the visitors with the Dark Empire's might.

As evening came and the setting sun stained the city

with unhealthy shades, Baron Meliadus sighed with re-

lief and instructed the pilot to direct the ornithopter to

the landing stage on the roof of the palace.

It landed with a great flurry of metal wings, a

wheezing and a clattering and the two emissaries

climbed stiffly out; like the machine, they remained

semblances of natural life.

They walked to the hooded entrance of the palace

and moved down the winding ramp until they were at

last again in the corridors of shifting light, to be met

by their guard of honor, six high-ranking warriors of

the Order of the Mantis, their insect masks reflecting

the brightness from the walls, who escorted them back

to their own chambers where they would rest and eat.

Leaving them at the door of their apartments, Baron

Meliadus bowed and hurried away, having promised

that tomorrow they should discuss matters of science,

and compare the progress of Asiacommunista with the

achievements of Granbretan.

Flinging himself through the hallucinatory passages

he almost bowled over the King Emperor's relative,

Flana, Countess of Kanbery.

"My lord!"

He paused, made to pass her, stopped. "My lady

my apologies."

"You are in a hurry, my lord!"

"I am, Flana."

, "You are in uneven temper, it seems."

"My temper is poor."

"You would console yourself?"

"I have business to attend to ..."

"Business should be conducted with a cool head, my

lord?"

"Perhaps."

"If you would cool your passion ..."

He started to continue his progress, then stopped

again. He had experienced Flana's methods of consola-

tion before. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he did

need her. On the other hand he needed to make prep-

arations for his expedition to the West as soon as the

emissaries had departed. Still, they would be here for

some days at least. Also, the previous night had proved

unsatisfactory and his morale was low. At least he

could prove himself a lover.

"Perhaps . . ." he said again, this time more thought-

fully.

"Then let us make haste to my apartments, my lord,"

said she with a trace of eagerness.

With mounting interest, Meliadus took her arm.

"Ah, Flana," he murmured. "Ah, Flana."

Chapter Eleven

THOUGHTS OF

THE COUNTESS FLANA

FLANA'S MOTIVES in seeking the company of Me-

liadus had been mixed, for it was not the baron in

whom she was chiefly interested, but in his charges, the

two stiff-limbed giants from the East.

She asked him about them as they lay in their sweat

in her enormous bed and he confided his frustrations,

his hatred of his task and his hatred of the emis-

saries, told her of his real ambition, which was to

avenge himself of his enemies, the slayers of her hus-

band, the inhabitants of Castle Brass, told her of his

discovery that Tozer had found an old man in the

West, in the forgotten province of Yel, who might

have the secret of reaching his foes.

And he murmured of his fears that he was losing his

power, his prestige (though he knew he should not

speak such secret thoughts to Flana of all women) and

that the King Emperor was these days trusting others,

such as Shenegar Trott, with the knowledge that he

once only gave to Meliadus.

"Oh, Flana," he said, shortly before he fell into a

moody sleep, "if you were Queen, together we could

fulfill our Empire's mightiest destiny."

But Flana scarcely heard him, was scarcely think-

ing, merely lay there and moved her heavy body from

time to time, for Meliadus had failed to ease the aching

in her soul, had barely eased the craving in her loins

and her mind was on the emissaries who lay sleeping

only two tiers above her head.

At length she rose from the bed, leaving Meliadus

snoring and moaning in his sleep, and dressed herself

again in gown and mask, and slipped from her room

to glide along the corridors, up the ramps, until she

came at last to the doors that were guarded by the Man-

tis warriors. The insect masks turned questioningly.

"You know who I am," said she.

They did know and they withdrew from the doors.

She chose one and pressed it open, entering the excit-

ing darkness of the emissaries' apartments.

ft

Chapter Twelve

A REVELATION

MOONLIGHT ALONE ILLUMINATED the room, fall-

ing on a bed in which a figure stirred, showing her the

discarded ornaments, armor and mask of the man who

lay there.

She moved closer.

"My lord?" she whispered.

Suddenly the figure shot up in the bed and she saw

his startled face, saw his hands fly up to cover his fea-

tures, and she gasped in recognition.

"I know you!"

"Who are you?" He leapt from beneath the silken

sheets, naked in the moonlight, ran forward to seize

her. "A woman!"

"Aye . . ." purred she. "And you are a man." She

laughed softly. "Not a giant at all, though of goodly

height. Your mask and armor made you seem more

than a foot taller."

"What do you want?"

"I sought to entertain you, sirand be entertained.

But I am disappointed, for I believed you to be other

than human. Now I know you to be the man I saw in

the Throne Room two years agothe man Meliadus

brought before the King-Emperor."

"So you were there that day." His grip tightened on

her and his hand rose to yank off her mask and cover

her mouth. She nibbled the fingers; stroked the muscles

of the other arm. The hand on her mouth relaxed.

"Who are you?" he whispered. "Do others know?"

"I am Flana Mikosevaar, Countess of Kanbery.

None suspects you, daring German. And I will not call

in the guards, if that is what you expect, for I have no

interest in politics and no sympathy with Meliadus.

Indeed, I am grateful to you, for you rid me of a trou-

blesome spouse."

"You are Mikosevaar's widow?"

"I am. And you I knew immediately by the black

jewel in your forehead which you sought to hide when

I entered. You are Duke Dorian Hawkmoon von Koln,

here in disguise, no doubt, to learn the secrets of your

enemies."

"I believe I shall have to kill you, madam."

"I have no intention of betraying you, Duke Dorian.

At least, not at once. I came to offer myself for your

pleasure, that is all. You have rid me of my mask."

She turned her golden eyes upward to regard his hand-

some face. "Now you may rid me of the rest of my

garb ..."

"Madam," he said hoarsely. "I cannot. I am mar-

ried."

She laughed. "As am II have been married count-

less times."

There was sweat on his forehead as he returned her

gaze and his muscles tensed. "MadamII can-

not .. ."

There was a sound and they both turned.

The door separating the apartments opened and

there stood a gaunt, good-looking man who coughed a

little ostentatiously and then bowed. He, too, was com-

pletely naked.

"My friend, madam," said Huillam D'Averc, "is of

a somewhat rigid moral disposition. However, if I can

assist..."

She moved toward him, looking him up and down.

"You seem a healthy fellow," she said.

He turned his eyes away. "Ah, madam, it is kind of

you to say so. But I am not, not a well man. On the

other hand," he reached out and took her shoulder,

guiding her into his chamber, "I will do what little I

can to please you before this failing heart gives up on

me..."

The door closed, leaving Hawkmoon trembling.

He sat on the edge of his bed, cursing himself for

not having slept in his cumbersome disguise, but the

exhausting tour of the day had made him dispense with

caution of that kind. When the Warrior in Jet and

Gold had put the plan to them, it had seemed un-

necessarily dangerous. The logic had been sound

enoughthey must discover if the old man from Yel

had been found before they went off searching for him

in Western Granbretan. But now it seemed their

chances of getting such information were dashed.

The guards must have seen the countess enter. Even

if they killed her or imprisoned her, the guards would

suspect something. They were in a city that was, to a

man, totally dedicated to their destruction. They had

no allies and there was no possible hope of escape

once their real identities became known.

Hawkmoon racked his brains for a plan that would

at least enable them to flee the city before it became

alerted, but all seemed hopeless.

Hawkmoon began to pile on his heavy robes and ar-

mour. The only weapon he had was the golden baton

which the Warrior had given him to complete the im-

pression of a noble dignitary from Asiacommunista.

He hefted it, wishing he had a sword.

Pacing the room, he continued to try to think of a

feasible plan of escape, but nothing came.

He was still pacing when morning came and Huillam

D'Averc put his head through the door and grinned.

"Good morning, Hawkmoon? Have you had no rest,

man? I sympathize. Neither have I. The countess is a

demanding creature. However I am glad to see you

ready for a journey. We must hurry."

"What do you mean, D'Averc? I have tried all night

to conceive a plan, but I can think of nothing . . ."

"I have been questioning Flana of Kanbery and she

has told me everything we need to know, for Meliadus,

apparently, has confided much in her. She has also

agreed to help us escape."

"How?"

"Her private ornithopter. It is ours for the taking."

"Can you trust her?"

"We must. ListenMeliadus has not yet had time to

seek out Mygan of Llandar. By good fortune, it was

our arrival kept him here. But he knows of him

knows, at least, that Tozer learned his secret from an

old man in the Westand means to find him. We

have the chance to find Mygan first. We can go part

of the way by Flana's ornithopter which I will fly and

continue the rest of the journey on foot."

"But we are weaponlesswithout proper clothes!"

"Weapons and clothes I can obtain from Flana

masks also. She has a thousand trophies of past con-

quests in her chambers."

"We must go to her chambers now!"

"No. We must wait for her to return here."

"Why?"

"Because, my friend, Meliadus may still be sleeping

in her apartments. Have patience. We are in luck.

Pray that it will hold!"

Not much later Flana returned, took off her mask

and kissed D'Averc almost hesitantly, as a young girl

might kiss a lover. Her features seemed softer and her

eyes less haunted, as if she had found some quality in

D'Averc's lovemaking that she had not experienced be-

forepossibly gentleness, which was not a quality of

the men of Granbretan.

"He is gone," she said. "And I have half a mind,

Huillam, to keep you here, for myself. For many years

I have contained a need which I could not express,

never satisfy. You have come close to satisfying it . . ."

He bent and kissed her lightly on the lips and his

voice seemed sincere when he said: "And you, too,

Flana, have given me something . . ." He straightened

stiffly, having donned his heavy, built-up garments.

He placed his tall mask upon his head. "Come, we

must hurry, before the palace wakes."

Hawkmoon followed D'Averc's example, donning

his own helmet, and once again the two resembled

strange, half-human creatures, the emissaries from

Asiacommunista.

Now Flana led them from the apartments, past the

Mantis guards, who fell in behind them, and through

the twisting, shining corridors until her own apartments

were reached. They ordered the guards to remain out-

side.

"They will report that they followed us here,"

D'Averc said. "You will be suspected, Flana!"

She doffed her heron mask and smiled. "No," she

said and crossed the deep carpet to a polished chest set

with diamonds. She raised the lid and took out a long

pipe, at the end of which was a soft bulb. "This bulb

contains a poison spray," she said. "Once inhaled, the

poison turns the victim mad so that he runs wild and

berserk before dying. The guards will run through

many corridors before they perish. I have used it be-

fore. It always works."

She spoke so sweetly of murder that Hawkmoon was

forced to shudder.

"All I need do, you see," she continued, "is to push

the hollow rod through the keyhole and squeeze the

bulb."

She placed the apparatus on the lid of the chest and

led them through several splendid, eccentrically fur-

nished rooms, until they came to a chamber with a

huge window that looked out onto a broad balcony.

There on the balcony, its wings neatly folded, fash-

ioned to resemble a beautiful scarlet and silver heron,

was Flana's ornithopter.

She hurried to another part of the room and drew

back a curtain. There, in a great pile, was her booty

clothes, masks and weapons of all her departed lovers

and husbands.

"Take what you need," she murmured, "and hurry."

Hawkmoon selected a doublet of blue velvet, hose

of black doe-skin, a sword-belt of brocaded leather

which held a long, beautifully balanced blade and a

poignard. For his mask he took one of his slain ene-

my'sAsrovaak Mikosevaar'sglowering vulture

masks.

D'Averc dressed himself in a suit of deep yellow

with a cloak of lustrous blue, boots of deerhide and a

blade similar to Hawkmoon's. He, too, took a vulture

mask, reasoning that two of the same Order would be

likely to be travelling together. Now they looked truly

great nobles of Granbretan.

Flana opened the window and they stepped out into

the cold, foggy morning.

"Farewell," whispered Flana. "I must get back to the

guards. Farewell, Huillam D'Averc. I hope we shall

meet again."

"I hope so, also, Flana," replied D'Averc with un-

usual gentleness of tone. "Farewell."

He climbed into the cockpit of the ornithopter and

started the motor. Hawkmoon hastily got in behind

him.

The thing's wings began to beat at the air and with

a clatter of metal it rose into the gloomy sky of Londra,

turning West.

Chapter Thirteen

KING HUON'S

DISPLEASURE

MANY EMOTIONS CONFLICTED in Baron Melia-

dus as he entered the Throne Room of his King Em-

peror, abased himself and began the long trudge toward

the Throne Globe.

The white fluid of the globe surged more agitatedly

than usual, alarming the Baron. He was at once furious

that the emissaries had disappeared, nervous of his

monarch's wrath, anxious to pursue his quest for the

old man who could give him the means of reaching

Castle Brass. Also he feared lest he lose his power and

his pride and (the king had been known to do it be-

fore) be banished to the Quarter of the Unmasked. His

nervous fingers brushed his wolf-helm and his step fal-

tered as he neared the Throne Globe and looked anx-

iously up at the foetus-like shape of his monarch.

"Great King Emperor. It is your servant Meliadus."

He fell to his knees and bowed to the ground.

"Servant? You have not served us very well, Melia-

dus!"

"I am sorry, Noble Majesty, but..."

"But?"

"But I could have no knowledge that they planned

to leave last night, returning by the means with which

they came..."

"It should have been your business to sense their

plans, Meliadus."

"Sense? Sense their plans, Mighty Monarch... ?"

"Your instinct is failing you, Meliadus. Once it was

exactyou acted according to its dictates. Now your

silly plans for vengeance fill your brain and being

and make you blind to all else. Meliadus, those emis-

saries slew six of my best guards. How they killed

them, I know notperhaps a mental spell of some

landbut kill them they did, somehow leaving the

palace and returning to whatever machine brought

them here. They have discovered much about us

and we, Meliadus, have discovered virtually nothing

about them."

"We know a little of their military equipment..."

"Do we? Men can lie, you know, Meliadus. We are

displeased with you. We charged you to perform a

duty and you performed it only partially and without

your full attention. You spent time at Taragorm's pal-

ace, left the emissaries to their own devices when you

should have been entertaining them. You are a fool,

Meliadus. A fool!"

"Sire, I"

"It is your stupid obsession with that handful of

outlaws who dwell in Castle Brass. Is it the girl you de-

sire? Is that why you seek them with such single-minded-

ness?"

"I fear they threaten the Empire, noble sire ..."

"SodoesAsiacommunistathreatenourEmpire,

Baron Meliaduswith real swords and real armies and

real ships that can travel through the earth. Baron,

you must forget your vendetta against Castle Brass or,

we warn you, you had best be wary of our displeasure."

"But, sire..."

"We have warned you, Baron Meliadus. Put Castle

Brass from your mind. Instead, try to learn all you can

of the emissaries, discover where their machine met

them, how they managed to leave the city. Redeem

yourself in our eyes, Baron Meliadusrestore your-

self to your old prestige ..."

"Aye, sire," Baron Meliadus said through gritted

teeth, controlling his anger and chagrin.

"The audience is at an end, Meliadus."

"Thank you," said Meliadus, blood pounding in his

head, "sire."

He backed away from the Throne Globe.

He turned on his heel and began to pace the long

hall.

He reached the jewelled doors, pushed past the

guards and strode down the gleaming corridors of shift-

ing light.

On he marched, and on, his pace rapid and his

movements stiff, his hand white on the hilt of his sword

which it gripped tightly.

He paced until he had reached the great reception

hall of the palace where waited the nobles craving

audience with the King Emperor; descended the steps

that led to the gates opening on the outer worlds,

signed for his girls to come forward with his litter,

clambered into it and dumped himself heavily on its

cushions, and allowed himself to be borne back to his

black and silver palace.

Now he hated his King Emperor. Now he loathed

the creature who had humiliated him so, thwarted him

so, insulted him so. King Huon was a fool not to realise

the potential danger offered by Castle Brass. Such a

fool was not fit to reign, not fit to command slaves, let

alone Baron Meliadus, Grand Constable of the Order of

the Wolf.

Meliadus would not listen to King Huon's stupid

orders, would do what he thought best and, if the King

Emperor objected, then he would defy him.

A little later, Meliadus left his palace on horseback.

He rode at the head of twenty men. Twenty hand-

picked men whom he could trust to follow him any-

whereeven to Yel.

Chapter Fourteen

THE WASTES OF YEL

THE COUNTESS FLANA'S ornithopter dropped

closer and closer to the ground, its belly brushing the

tops of tall pines, its wings narrowly missing becom-

ing entangled with the branches of birches, until at last

it landed on the wiry heather beyond the forest.

The day was cold and a sharp wind whistled across

the heath, biting through their flimsy costumes.

Shivering, they clambered from the flying machine

and looked warily about them. No one was in sight.

D'Averc reached into his jerkin and produced a

scrap of thin leather on which a map was scrawled.

He pointed. "We go in that direction. Now we must

get the ornithopter into the woods and hide it."

"Why cannot we leave it? The chances of anyone

finding it for a day or so are slim," Hawkmoon said.

But D'Averc spoke seriously. "I do not wish any

harm to come to Countess Flana, Hawkmoon. If the

machine were discovered, it could be ill for her. Come."

And so they tugged and shoved at the metal ma-

chine until it was in the pinewood and thickly covered

with brash. It had borne them as far as it could until

its fuel gave out. They had not expected it to carry

them the whole way to Yel.

Now they must continue on foot.

For four days they walked through woods and across

heaths, the terrain gradually becoming less and less

fertile as they neared the borders of Yel.

Then one day Hawkmoon paused and pointed.

"Look, D'Avercthe Mountains of Yel."

And there they were in the distance, their purple

peaks in cloud, the plain and the foothills beneath

them all tawny yellow rock.

It was a wild, beautiful landscape, such as Hawk-

moon had never seen before.

He gasped. "So there are some sights in Granbre-

tan not entirely offensive to the eye, D'Averc."

"Aye, it is pretty," D'Averc agreed. "But daunting

also. We have to find Mygan there somewhere. Judging

by the map, Llandar is still many miles into those

mountains."

"Then let us press on." Hawkmoon adjusted his

sword belt. "We had a small advantage over Meliadus

to begin with, but it is possible that even now he is on

his way to Yel in hot quest of Mygan."

D'Averc stood on one leg and ruefully rubbed his

foot. "True, but I fear these boots will not, last the

distance. I picked them from pride, for their prettiness,

not for their sturdiness. I am learning my mistake."

Hawkmoon clapped him on the shoulder. "I've heard

wild ponies roam these parts. Pray we find a couple we

can tame."

But no wild ponies could be found and the yellow

ground was hard and rocky and the sky above became

full of a livid radiance. Hawkmoon and D'Averc began

to realise why the folk of Granbretan were so super-

stitious of this region, for there did seem to be some-

thing unnatural about both land and sky.

At last the mountains were entered.

Seen close to, these were also of a yellowish color,

though with streaks of dark red and green, all glassy

and grim. Strange-looking beasts skittered away from

their path as they clambered on over jagged rocks and

peculiar man-like creatures, with hairy bodies topped

by completely hairless heads, measuring less than a

foot high, regarded them from cover.

"They were once men, those creatures," D'Averc

said. "Their ancestors dwelt in these parts. But the

Tragic Millenium did its work here well."

"How do you know this?" Hawkmoon asked him.

"I have read my books. It was in Yel, worse than any

other part of Granbretan, that the Tragic Millennium's

effects were felt. That is why it is so desolate, for peo-

ple will not come here any longer."

"Save Tozerand the old man, Mygan of Llandar."

"Ayeif Tozer spoke the truth. We could still be

on a wild goose chase, Hawkmoon."

"But Meliadus had the same story."

"Perhaps Tozer is merely a consistent liar?"

It was close to nightfall when the mountain creatures

came scuttling from their caves high above and at-

tacked Hawkmoon and D'Averc.

They were covered in oily fur, with the beaks of

birds and the claws of cats, huge eyes blazing, beaks

parting to reveal teeth, emitting a horrible hissing

sound. There were three females and about six males as

far as they could tell In the semi-darkness.

Hawkmoon drew his sword, adjusting his vulture

mask as he would adjust an ordinary helm, and set his

back to a wall of rock.

D'Averc took up a position beside him. Then the

beasts were on them.

Hawkmoon slashed at the first, carving a long, bloody

scar across its chest. It recoiled with a shriek.

A second was taken by D'Averc, stabbed through

the heart. Hawkmoon neatly slit the throat of a third,

but a fourth's claws were gripping his left arm. He

struggled, muscles straining as he tried to turn his

dagger upward to stab the creature's wrist, while mean-

while he slashed at one trying to take him from the

other side.

Hawkmoon coughed and felt nauseous, for the beasts

stank horribly. He at last wrenched his hand round and

dug the point of his dagger into its forearm. It grunted

and let go.

Instantly Hawkmoon drove the blade of the dagger

deep into one staring eye and left the weapon there as

he turned to deal with the next creature.

It was dark now and hard to make out how many of

the beasts were left. D'Averc was holding his own,

shouting filthy insults at the creatures as his blade

moved rapidly this way and that.

Hawkmoon's foot slipped on blood and he staggered,

catching the small of his back on a spur of rock. With

a hiss another beaked beast was on him, clutching him

in a bearlike grip, pinning both arms to his sides, the

beak snapping at his face and closing with a snap on

the vulture visor.

Hawkmoon sweated to break the grip, tore his head

from the mask, leaving it in the creature's beak,

wrenched the thing's arms apart and punched it heavily

in the chest. It staggered in surprise, not realising that

the vulture mask had not been part of Hawkmoon's

body.

Quickly Hawkmoon drove Ms sword into its heart

and turned to assist D'Averc, who had two of the

things on him.

Hawkmoon lopped one's head completely from its

shoulders and was about to attack the next when it re-

leased D'Averc and screamed, rushing off into the

night, clutching part of his jerkin.

They had accounted for all but one of their disgust-

ing attackers.

D'Averc was panting, wounded slightly in the chest

where the claws had ripped his jerkin away. Hawkmoon

ripped up a piece of his cloak and padded the wound.

"No great harm done," said D'Averc. He yanked off

his battered vulture mask and flung it away. "Those

came in useful, but I'll wear mine no longer since I see

you've discarded yours. That jewel in your forehead is

unmistakable, so there's no point in my continuing

to disguise myself!" He grinned. "I told you the Tragic

Millenium had produced some ugly creatures, friend

Hawkmoon."

"I believe you," smiled Hawkmoon. "Come, we had

best find a place to camp for the night. Tozer marked a

safe resting spot on his map. Bring it out into the star-

light so we can read it."

D'Averc reached into his jerkin and then his jaw

dropped in horror. "Oh, Hawkmoon! We are not so

lucky!"

"Why so, my friend?"

"That section of my jerkin the creature carried off

contained the pocket in which I had the map supplied

by Tozer. We are lost, Hawkmoon!"

Hawkmoon cursed, sheathed his sword and frowned.

"There's nothing for it," he said. "We must trail the

beast. It was slightly wounded and might have left a

trail of blood. Perhaps it has dropped the map on its

way back to its lair. Failing that we shall have to follow

it all the way to where it lives and find a means of

getting back our map when we arrive!"

D'Averc frowned. "Is it worth it? Can we not remem-

ber where we are bound?"

"Not well enough. Come, D'Averc."

Hawkmoon began to clamber over the sharp rocks

in the direction in which the creature had disappeared

and D'Averc came reluctantly after him.

Luckily the sky was clear and the moon bright and

Hawkmoon at last saw some gleaming patches on the

rocks that must have been blood. A bit further on he

saw more patches.

"This way, D'Averc," he called.

His Mend sighed, shrugged and followed.

The search went on until dawn, when Hawkmoon lost

the trail and shook his head. They were high up on

a mountain slope, with a good view of two valleys be-

low them. He ran his hand through his blond hair and

he sighed.

"No sign of the thing. And yet I was sure..."

"Now we are worse off," D'Averc said absently,

rubbing his weary eyes. "No mapand no longer,

even, on our original trail..."

"I am sorry, D'Averc. I thought it the best plan."

Hawkmoon's shoulders sagged. Then suddenly he

brightened and pointed.

"There! I saw something moving. Come on." And

he was sprinting along the shelf of rock to disappear

from D'Averc's sight.

D'Averc heard a shout of surprise and then a sud-

den silence.

The Frenchman drew his sword and followed after

his friend, wondering what he had met with.

Then he saw the source of Hawkmoon's amaze-

ment. There, far below in a valley, was a city all made

of metal, with shiny surfaces of red, gold, orange, blue

and green, with curving metal roadways and sharp

metal towers. It was plain to see, even from here, that

the city was deserted and falling to pieces, with rusting

walls and adornments.

Hawkmoon stood looking down at it. He pointed.

There was their remaining antagonist of the night be-

fore, sliding down the rocky sides of the mountain to-

ward the city.

"That must be where he lives," Hawkmoon said.

"I like not to follow him down there," D'Averc

murmured. "There could be poison airthe air that

makes your flesh crumple from your face, that causes

vomiting and death..."

"The poison air does not exist any more, D'Averc,

and you know it. It only lasts for a while and then

disappears. Surely there has been no poison air here for

centuries." He began to clamber down the mountain in

pursuit of his foe who still clutched the piece of jerkin

containing Tozer's map.

"Oh, very well," groaned D'Averc. "Let's seek death

together!" And once again he began to follow in his

friend's wake. "You are a wild, impatient gentleman,

Duke von Koln!"

While loose stones rattled down and made the crea-

ture they pursued run all the faster towards the city,

Hawkmoon and D'Averc gave chase as best they could,

for they were unused to mountainous terrain and

D'Averc's boots were almost in shreds.

They saw the beast enter the shadows of the metal

"city and disappear.

A few moments later they, too, had reached the city

and looked up, in some trepidation, at the huge metal

structures that loomed into the sky, creating menac-

ing shadows below.

Hawkmoon noticed some more bloodstains and

threaded his way between the struts and pylons of the

city, peering with difficulty in the murky light.

And then suddenly there was a clicking sound, a

hissing sound, a peculiar land of subdued growl

and the creature was upon him, its claws about

his throat, digging deeper and deeper. He felt one

pierce, then another. He whipped up his own hands

and tried to prise the clawed fingers away, felt the

beak snap at the back of his neck.

Then there was a wild shriek and a yell and the

claws released his throat.

Hawkmoon staggered round to see D'Averc, sword in

hand, looking down at the body of the beaked beast.

"The disgusting creature had no brains," said

D'Averc lightly. "What a fool it was to attack you and

leave me free to slay it from behind." He extended his

arm and delicately skewered the missing piece of cloth

that had fallen from the dead thing's claw. "Here's

our map, as good as ever!"

Hawkmoon wiped blood from his throat. The claws

had not pierced too deeply. "The poor thing," he said.

"No softness now, Hawkmoon! You know how it

alarms me to hear you speaking thus. Remember the

creatures attacked us."

"I wonder why. There should be no shortage of

their natural prey in these mountainsthere are all

kinds of edible creatures. Why feast on us?"

"Either we were the nearest meat they saw,"

D'Averc suggested, looking about him at the lattice of

metal everywhere, "or else they have learned to hate

men."

D'Averc re-sheathed his sword with a flourish and

began to make his way through the forest of metal

struts that supported the towers and streets of the city

above them. Refuse lay everywhere and there were bits

of dead animals, offal; rotting, unidentifiable stuff.

"Let's explore this city while we're here," D'Averc

said, climbing up one girder. "We could sleep here."

Hawkmoon consulted the map. "It's marked," he

said. "Halapandur's its name. Not too far to the east of

where our mysterious philosopher has his cavern."

"How far?"

"About a day's march in these mountains."

"Let's rest here and press on tomorrow," D'Averc

suggested.

Hawkmoon frowned for a moment. Then he shrugged.

"Very well." He, too, began to clamber up through the

girders until they reached one of the strange, curving

metal streets.

"We'll strike out for yonder tower," suggested

D'Averc.

They began to walk along the gently sloping ramp

towards a tower that gleamed turquoise and sultry

scarlet in the sunshine.

Chapter Fifteen

THE DESERTED CAVERN

AT THE BASE of the tower was a small door that

had been driven inwards as if by the punching of a

giant fist. Clambering through the aperture, Hawk-

moon and D'Averc tried to peer through the gloom to

see what the tower contained.

"There," said Hawkmoon. "A stairwayor some-

thing very like one."

They stumbled over rubble and discovered that it

was not a stairway leading up into the higher parts of

the tower, but a ramp, not unlike the ramps that con-

nected one building to another in the city itself.

"From what I've read this place was built only

shortly before the Tragic Millenium," D'Averc told

Hawkmoon as they continued up the ramp. "It was a

city wholly given over to scientistsa Research City,

I believe they called it. Every kind of scientist came

here from all parts of the world. The idea was that

new discoveries would be made by cross-fertilisation.

If my memory serves me, the legends say that many

strange inventions were created here, though most of

their secrets are now completely lost."

Up they went until the ramp led them onto a wide

platform which was completely surrounded by win-

dows of glass. Most of the windows were cracked or

completely blown out, but from this platform it was

possible to see the whole of the rest of the city.

"Almost certainly this was used to view the goings off

all over Halapandur," Hawkmoon said. He looked

about him. Everywhere were the remains of instru-

ments whose function he could not recognize. They

bore the stamp of things prehistoric; all in dull, plain

cases with austere characters engraved on them, to-

tally unlike the baroque decoration and flowing num-

erals and letters of modern times. "Some sort of room

controlling the functions of the rest of Halapandur."

D'Averc pursed his lips and pointed. "Ayyou can

observe its uses at once. Look, Hawkmoon."

Some distance away, on the opposite side of the city

from the one they had entered, could be seen a line of

horsemen in the helmets and armour of Dark Empire

troops. They could make out no details from this

height.

"My guess is that Meliadus leads them," Hawkmoon

said, fingering his sword. "He cannot know exactly

where Mygan is, but he can have discovered that

Tozer was in this city at some time, and he'll have

trackers with him who'll soon discover Mygan's cave.

We cannot afford to rest here now, D'Averc. We must

press on at once."

D'Averc nodded. "A shame." He stooped and

picked up a small object he had seen on the floor, plac-

ing it in his tattered jerkin. "I think I recognise this."

"What is it?"

"It could be one of the charges used for the old guns

they used," D'Averc said. "If so, it will be useful."

"But you have no old gun!"

"One does not always need one!" said D'Averc

mysteriously.

They ran back down the ramp to the entrance of

the tower. Risking being seen by the Dark Empire war-

riors, they dashed along the large, outer ramps as fast

as they could, then swung back again down the girders

and out of sight.

"I don't think we were seen," D'Averc said. "Come

onwe go this way for Mygan's lair."

They began to race up the side of the mountain,

slithering and sliding in their anxiety to reach the old

sorcerer before Meliadus.

Night came, but they moved on.

They were starving, for they had eaten practically

nothing since they had set out for Llandar Valley, and

they were beginning to weaken.

But they struggled on and just before dawn came to

the valley marked on the map. The valley where the

sorcerer Mygan was said to live.

Hawkmoon began to smile. "Those Dark Empire

riders will have camped for the night, almost certainly.

We'll have time to see Mygan, get his crystals, and be

away before they ever arrive!"

"Let's hope so," said D'Averc, thinking privately that

Hawkmoon needed rest, for his eyes were a little fever-

ish. But he followed him down to the valley and con-

sulted the map. "Up there," he said. "That's where

Mygan's cave's supposed to be, but I see nothing."

"The map has it halfway up yonder cliff," said

Hawkmoon. "Let us climb up and see."

They crossed the floor of the valley, leaping over a

small, clear stream that ran down a fissure in the rock

the length of the valley. Here there were, indeed, signs

of Man, for there was a path down to the river and a

wooden apparatus that had evidently been used for

drawing up water from the stream.

They followed the path to the side of the cliff. Now

they found old, worn handholds in the rock. They

had not been carved recently, but had been there, it

appeared, for ages, well before Mygan had been born.

They began to climb.

The going was difficult, but at last they reached a

ledge of rock on which a huge boulder stood, and there,

behind the boulder, was the dark entrance to a cavern!

Hawkmoon went forward, eager to enter, but

D'Averc put a cautionary hand on his shoulder.

"Best take care," he said and drew his sword.

"An old man cannot harm us," Hawkmoon said.

"You are tired, my friend, and exhausted, other-

wise you would realise that an old man of the wisdom

Tozer claimed for him will possibly have weapons

which could harm us. He has no liking for men, from

what Tozer said, and there is no reason why he should

think us anything more than enemies."

Hawkmoon nodded, drew his own blade, and then

advanced.

The cavern was dark and seemingly empty, but then

they saw a glimmer of light from the back. Approach-

ing the source of this light, they discovered a sharp

bend in the cavern.

Rounding the bend they saw that the first cavern

led on to a second, much larger. This was fitted up with

all sorts of things, instruments of the kind they had

seen in Halapandur, a couple of cots, cooking mate-

rials, chemical equipment and much more. The source

of the light was a globe in the center of the cave.

"Mygan!" called D'Averc, but there was no reply.

They searched the cave, wondering if there was yet

another extension, but found nothing.

"He has gone!" Hawkmoon said in desperation, his

nervous fingers rubbing at the black jewel in his fore-

head. "Gone, D'Averc, and who knows where. Per-

haps after Tozer left him, he decided that it was no

longer safe to remain and has moved on."

"I think not," D'Averc said. "He would have taken

some of this stuff with him, would he not?" He looked

around the cave. "And that cot looks recently slept in.

There is no dust anywhere. Mygan has probably gone

off on some local expedition and will be back soon.

We must wait for him."

"And what of Meliadusif that was Meliadus we

saw?"

"We must simply hope he moves slowly on the trail

and takes some time to discover this cave!"

"If he's as eager as you said Flana told you, then

he'll not be far behind us," Hawkmoon pointed out. He

went to a bench on which there were various dishes of

meat, vegetables and herbs, helping himself greedily.

D'Averc followed his example.

"We'll rest here and wait," D'Averc said. "It is all

we can do now, my friend."

A day passed, and a night, and Hawkmoon hourly

grew impatient as the old man did not return.

"Suppose he has been captured," he suggested to

D'Averc. "Suppose Meliadus found him wandering

in the mountains."

"If so, then Meliadus is bound to bring him back

here and we shall win the old man's gratitude by res-

cuing him from the baron," D'Averc replied with

forced cheerfulness.

"There were twenty men we saw, armed with flame-

lances if I was not mistaken. We cannot take twenty,

D'Averc."

"You are in low spirits, Hawkmoon. We have taken

twenty beforemore!"

"Aye," Hawkmoon agreed, but it was plain that the

journey had taken much out of him. Perhaps, too, the

deception at the Court of King Huon had been a great-

er strain on him than on D'Averc, for D'Averc ap-

peared to relish deception of that kind.

At length, Hawkmoon strode to the outer cave and

onto the ledge beyond. Some instinct seemed to draw

him out, for he looked into the valley and saw them.

Now it was close enough to be sure.

The leader of the men was, indeed, Baron Meliadus.

His ornate wolf mask glinted ferociously as it turned

up and saw Hawkmoon at the instant Hawkmoon

looked down.

The great, roaring voice echoed through the moun-

tains. It was a voice full of mingled rage and triumph,

the voice of a wolf that has scented its prey.

"Hawkmoon!," came the cry. "Hawkmoon!"

Meliadus flung himself from Ms saddle and began to

scale the cliff. "Hawkmoon!"

Behind him came his well-armed men and Hawk-

moon knew there was little chance of fighting them all

off. He called back into the cavern. "D'AvercMelia-

dus is here. Quickly man, he'll trap us in these caves.

We must reach the top of the cliff."

D'Averc came running from the cavern, buckling on

his sword belt, glanced down, thought for a moment,

then nodded. Hawkmoon ran to the face of the cliff,

seeking handholds on the rough surface, hauling him-

self upward.

A flame-lance beam splashed against the rock close

to his hand, singeing the hairs on his wrist. Another

landed beneath him, but he climbed on.

Perhaps at the top of the cliff he could stand and

make a fight, but he needed to protect his life and

D'Averc's for as long as possible, for the security of

Castle Brass could depend on it.

"Haaawkmoooon!" came the echoing cry of the

vengeful Meliadus. "Haaaawkmoooooon!"

Hawkmoon climbed on, scraping his hands on the

rock, gashing his leg, but not pausing, taking incredi-

ble risks as he clambered up the cliff face, D'Averc

close behind him.

At last they reached the top and saw a plateau

stretching away from them. If they attempted to cross

it, the flame-lances were bound to cut them down.

"Now," Hawkmoon said grimly, drawing his sword,

"we stand and fight."

D'Averc grinned. "At last. I thought you were los-

ing your nerve, my friend."

They glanced over the edge of the cliff and saw that

Baron Meliadus had reached the ledge by Mygan's

cavern and was darting in, sending his men on ahead in

pursuit of his two hated foes. Doubtless he hoped to

find some of the others thereOladahn, Count Brass

or even, perhaps Yisselda, whom Hawkmoon knew

was loved by the baron, however much he refused to

admit it.

Soon the first of the wolf warriors had reached the

cliff and Hawkmoon delivered a jarring kick to his

helmet. He did not fall, however, but reached out and

clutched Hawkmoon's foot, either trying to drag him-

self back to safety or drag Hawkmoon with him over

the cliff.

D'Averc sprang forward, stabbing the man in the

shoulder. He grunted, released the grip on Hawkmoon,

sought to grasp a spur of rock on the cliff edge, missed

and tumbled backwards, arms flailing, to yell one long

yell all the way to the floor of the valley, far, far be-

low.

But now others were clambering over the edge.

D'Averc engaged one, while Hawkmoon suddenly found

himself with two to contend with.

Back and forth along the edge of the cliff they

fought, the valley hundreds of feet below them.

Hawkmoon took one in the throat, between helm and

gorget, neatly skewered another through the belly,

where his armour did not reach, but two more quickly

took their place.

They fought for an hour thus, keeping back as many

as they could from gaining the top of the cliff, engaging

with their swords those they could not dissuade from

getting to the top.

Then they were surrounded, the swords pressing in

on them like the teeth of some gigantic shark, until

their throats were threatened by a band of blades and

Meliadus's voice came from somewhere, full of gloat-

ing malice. "Surrender, gentlemen, or you'll be butch-

ered, I promise."

Hawkmoon and D'Averc lowered their swords,

glancing hopelessly at each other.

They both knew that Meliadus hated them with a

terrible, consuming hatred. Now they were his prison-

ers in his own land. There was no possibility of escape.

Meliadus seemed to realize this, too, for he cocked

his wolf mask on one side and chuckled.

"I do not know how you came to Granbretan, Hawk-

moon and D'Averc, but I do know you now for a pair

of fools! Were you too seeking the old man? Why, I

wonder? You already have what he has."

"Perhaps he has other things," said Hawkmoon,

deliberately attempting to obscure the matter as much

as possible, for the less Meliadus knew, the more chance

they had of deceiving him.

"Other things? You mean he has other devices use-

ful to the Empire? Thanks for telling me, Hawkmoon.

The old man himself will doubtless be more specific."

"The old man has left, Meliadus," said D'Averc

smoothly. "We warned him you might be coming."

"Left, eh? If that's the case, you'll know where he

has gone, Sir Huillam."

"Not I," said D'Averc, looking peeved as the war-

riors bound him and Hawkmoon together and tied a

noose under their arms.

"We'll see." Meliadus chuckled again. "I appreciate

the excuse you offer me to begin a little torture here

and now. A soupcon of vengeance for the moment.

We'll explore the full possibilities when we return to

my palace. Then, too, perhaps I'll have the old man

and his secret of travelling through the dimensions . . ."

Privately he told himself that he was bound, in this

way, to reinstate himself with the King Emperor and

achieve Huon's forgiveness for leaving the city without

permission.

His gauntleted hand reached out to stroke Hawk-

moon's face almost lovingly. "Ah, Hawkmoonsoon

you shall feel my punishment; soon ..."

Hawkmoon shuddered to the roots of his being, then

spat full into the grinning wolf mask.

Meliadus recoiled, hand going up to mask, then

sweeping out and striking Hawkmoon across the mouth.

He growled in rage. "Another moment of anguish for

that, Hawkmoon. And those moments, I promise you,

will seem to last for aeons!"

Hawkmoon turned his head away in disgust and

pain, was thrust roughly forward by the guards and

pushed, together with Sir Huillam D'Averc, over the

edge of the cliff.

The rope around their bodies stopped them from

falling far, but they were lowered un-gently to the

ledge and Meliadus joined them shortly.

"I must still find the old man," said the baron. "I

suspect he's lurking somewhere hereabouts. We'll leave

you well bound in the cavern, put a couple of guards at

the entrance just in case you somehow free yourselves

from your bonds, and set off to look for him. There is

no escape for you now, Hawkmoon, none for you

either, D'Averc. You are both mine at last! Drag

them inside. Bind them with all the rope you can find.

Rememberguard them well, for they are Meliadus's

playthings!"

He watched as they were trussed and dragged into the

nearer cavern. Meliadus placed three men at the en-

trance of the cavern and began to clamber back down

the cliff in high spirits.

It would not be much longer, he promised himself,

before all his enemies were in his power, all their

secrets had been tortured from them, and then the King

Emperor would know that he had spoken the truth.

And if the King Emperor did not think well of him

what matter?

Meliadus had plans to right that error, also.

Chapter Sixteen

MYGAN OF LLANDAR

NIGHT FELL OUTSIDE the cavern and Hawkmoon

and D'Averc lay in the shadow cast by the light from

the second cave.

The broad backs of the guards filled the entrance

and the ropes of their bonds were tight-bound and con-

siderable.

Hawkmoon tried to struggle, but his movements

were virtually restricted to moving his mouth, his eyes

and his neck a little. D'Averc was in a similar posi-

tion.

"Well, my friend, we were not cautious enough,"

D'Averc said with as light a tone as he could muster.

"No," Hawkmoon agreed. "Starvation and weariness

makes fools of even the wisest of men. We have only

ourselves to blame ..."

"We deserve our suffering," D'Averc said, somewhat

doubtfully. "But do our friends? We must think of

escape, Hawkmoon, no matter how hopeless it seems."

Hawkmoon sighed. "Aye, If Meliadus should suc-

ceed in reaching Castle Brass ..."

He shuddered.

It seemed to him from his brief encounter with the

Granbretanian nobleman, that Meliadus was even more

deranged than previously. Was it his defeat, several

times, by Hawkmoon and the folk of Castle Brass? Was

it the thwarting of his victory when Castle Brass had

been spirited away? Hawkmoon could not guess. He

only knew that his old enemy seemed less in control of

his mind than earlier. There was no telling what he

would do in such an unbalanced condition.

Hawkmoon turned his head, frowning, thinking he

had heard a noise from within the far cavern. From

where he lay, he could see a little of the lighted cave.

He craned his neck, hearing the sound again.

D'Averc murmured, very softly so that the guards

should not hear, "There is someone in there, I'll

swear..."

And then a shadow fell across them and they stared

up into the face of a tall, old man with a great, rugged

face that seemed carved from stone and a mane of

white hair that helped his leonine appearance.

The old man frowned, looking the bound men up

and down. He pursed his lips and looked out to

where the three guards stood at attention, looked back

at Hawkmoon and D'Averc. He said nothing, simply

folded his arms across his chest. Hawkmoon saw that

there were crystal rings on his fingersall but the little

finger of the left hand bore rings, even the thumbs.

This must be Mygan of Llandar! But how had he got

into the cave? A secret entrance?

Hawkmoon looked at him desperately, mouthing his

pleas for help.

The giant smiled again and bent forward a little so

that he could hear Hawkmoon's whisper.

"Please, sir, if you be Mygan of Llandar, know that

we are friends to youprisoners of your enemies."

"And how do I know you speak truth?" said Mygan,

also in a whisper.

One of the guards stirred outside, beginning to turn,

doubtless sensing something. Mygan withdrew into the

cavern. The guard grunted.

"What are you two muttering about? Discussing

what the baron will do with ye, eh? Well, you can't

imagine what entertainments he's got fixed up for you,

Hawkmoon."

Hawkmoon made no reply.

When the guard had turned back, chuckling, Mygan

bent closer again.

"You're Hawkmoon?"

"You've heard of me?"

"Something. If you're Hawkmoon, you may be speak-

ing the truth, for though I be of Granbretan, I hold no

brief for the Lords who rule in Londra. But how do

you know who my enemies are?"

"Baron Meliadus of Kroiden has learned of the

secret you imparted to Tozer who was your guest here

not long ago ..."

"Imparted! He wheedled it from me, stole one of

my rings when I slept, used it to escape. Wanted to

ingratiate himself with his masters in Londra, I gath-

er ..."

"You are right. Tozer told them of a power, boasted

that it was a mental attribute, demonstrated his power

and turned up in the Kamarg..."

"Doubtless by accident. He had no conception of

how to use the ring properly."

"So we gathered."

"I believe you, Hawkmoon, and I fear this Melia-

dus."

"You'll free us so that we can attempt to escape

from here, protect you against him?"

"I doubt if I need your protection."

Mygan disappeared from Hawkmoon's view.

"What does he plan, I wonder," said D'Averc, who

had deliberately remained silent until now.

Hawkmoon shook his head.

Mygan reappeared with a long knife in his hand. He

stretched out and began slicing through Hawkmoon's

bonds until at last the Duke von Koln was able to free

himself, keeping a wary eye on the guards outside.

"Hand me the knife," he whispered, and took it

from Mygan's hand. He began cutting away D'Averc's

ropes.

From outside they heard voices.

"Baron Meliadus is returning," one of the guards

said. "He sounds in an evil temper."

Hawkmoon darted an anxious glance at D'Averc

and they sprang up.

Alerted by the movement, one of the guards turned,

crying out in surprise.

The two men darted forward. Hawkmoon's hand

stopped the guard from drawing his sword. D'Averc's

arm went round another's throat and drew his sword

for him. The sword rose and fell even before the guard

could scream.

While Hawkmoon wrestled with the first guard,

D'Averc engaged the third. The clang of swords be-

gan to sound in the air and they heard Meliadus's

shout of surprise.

Hawkmoon threw his opponent to the ground and

placed a knee in his groin, drew the dagger that was

still sheathed at his side, prised back the mask and

struck the man in the throat.

Meanwhile, D'Averc had despatched his man, stood

panting over the corpse.

Mygan called from the back of the cavern. "I see

you wear crystal rings, like those I have. Do you know

how to control them?"

"We know only how to return to the Kamarg! A

turn to the left. .."

"Aye. Well, Hawkmoon, I would help you. You

must turn the crystals first to the right and then to the

left. Repeat the movement six times and then ..."

The great bulk of Meliadus loomed in the entrance

to the cavern.

"Oh, Hawkmoonyou plague me still. The old

man! Seize him!"

The rest of Meliadus's warriors began to surge into

the cavern. D'Averc and Hawkmoon fell back before

them, desperately fighting.

The old man shouted in fury: "Trespassers. Back!"

He rushed forward with his long knife raised.

"No!" cried Hawkmoon. "Myganlet us do the

blade work. Keep away. You are defenceless against

such as these!"

But Mygan did not retreat. Hawkmoon tried to

reach him, saw him go down before a blow from a wolf

sword, struck out at the one who had struck Mygan.

The cavern was in confusion as they retreated back

into the inner cave. The sound of the swords echoed,

counterpointed by Meliadus's enraged shouts.

Hawkmoon dragged the wounded Mygan back to

the second cave, warding off the blows that fell upon

them both.

Now Hawkmoon faced the singing blade of Meliadus

himself, who swung his sword two-handed.

Hawkmoon felt a numbing shock in his left shoul-

der, felt blood begin to soak his sleeve. He parried a

further blow, then struck back, taking Meliadus in the

arm.

The baron groaned and staggered.

"Now, D'Averc!" called Hawkmoon. "Now, Mygan!

Turn the crystals! It is our only hope of escape!"

He turned the crystal in his ring first to the right and

then to the left, then six times more to right and left.

Meliadus growled and came at him again. Hawkmoon

raised his sword to block the blow.

And then Meliadus had vanished.

So had the cavern, so had his friends.

He stood alone upon a plain that stretched flat in all

directions. It was noon, for a huge sun hung in the sky.

The plain was of turf of a kind that grew close to the

ground and the smell it gave off reminded Hawkmoon

of spring.

Where was he? Had Mygan tricked him? Where

were the others?

Then the figure of Mygan of Llandar began to

materialize close by lying on the turf and clutching at

his worst wound. He was covered in a dozen sword

cuts, his leonine face pale and twisted with pain. Hawk-

moon sheathed his sword and sprang towards him.

"Mygan..."

"Ah, I'm dying, I fear, Hawkmoon. But at least I've

served in the shaping of your destiny. The Rune-

staff ..."

"My destiny? What do you mean? And what of the

Runestaff? I've heard so much of that mysterious

artifact, and yet no one will tell me exactly how it

concerns me ..."

"You'll learn when it's time. Meanwhile ..."

Suddenly D'Averc appeared, staring around him in

astonishment. "The things work! Thank the Runestaff

for that. I'd thought us all surely slain."

"Youyou must seek . . ." Mygan began to cough.

Blood spurted from between his teeth, falling down his

chin.

Hawkmoon cradled his head in his arms. "Do not

try to speak, Mygan. You are badly wounded. We

must find help. Perhaps if we returned to Castle

Brass..."

Mygan shook his head. "You cannot."

"Cannot return? But why? The rings worked to

bring us here. A turn to the left..."

"No. Once you have shifted in this way, the rings

must be re-set."

"How shall we set them?"

"I will not tell you!"

"Will not? You mean cannot?"

"No. It was my intention to bring you through space

to this land where you must fulfill part of your destiny.

You must seekah, ah! The pain!"

"You have tricked us, old man," said D'Averc.

"You wish us to play some role in a scheme of your

own. But you are dying. We cannot help you now.

Tell us how to return to Castle Brass and we shall get

someone to doctor you."

"It was no selfish whim that instructed me to bring

you here. It was knowledge of history. I have travelled

to many places, visited many eras, by means of the

rings. I know much. I know what you serve, Hawk-

moon, and I know that the time has come for you to

venture here."

"Where?" Hawkmoon said desperately. "In what

time have you deposited us? What is the land called?

It seems to consist entirely of this flat plain!"

But Mygan was coughing blood again and it was

plain that death was close.

"Take my rings," he said, breathing with difficulty.

"They could be useful. But seek first Narleen and the

Sword of the Dawnthat lies to your south. Then turn

north, when that's done, and seek the city of Dnark

and the Runestaff." He coughed again, then his body

shook with a great spasm and life fled him.

Hawkmoon looked up at D'Averc.

"The Runestaff? Are we then in Asiacommunista

where the thing is supposed to dwell?"

"It would be ironic, considering our earlier ruse,"

said D'Averc, dabbing with his kerchief at a wound on

his leg. "Perhaps that is where we are. I care not. We

are away from that boorish Meliadus and his blood-

thirsty pack. The sun above is warm. Save for our

wounds, we are considerably better off than we might

have been."

Looking about him, Hawkmoon sighed. "I am not

sure. If Taragorm's experiments are successful, he

could find a way through to our Kamarg. I would rather

be there than here." He fingered his ring. "I won-

der ..."

D'Averc put out his hand. "No, Hawkmoon. Do not

tamper with it. I'm inclined to believe the old man.

Besides, he seemed well-disposed toward you. He must

have meant you well. Probably he intended to tell you

where this was, give you more explicit directions as

to how to reach the placespresuming they were

placeshe spoke of. If we try to work the rings now,

there's no telling where we'll find ourselvespossibly

even back in that unpleasant company we left in

Mygan's cave!"

Hawkmoon nodded. "Perhaps you're wise, D'Averc.

But what do we do now?"

"First we do as Mygan said, and remove his rings.

Then we head southto that placewhat did he call

it?"

"Narleen. It could be a person. A thing."

"South, at any rate, we go, to find out if this Narleen

be place, person or thing. Come." He bent beside the

corpse of Mygan of Llandar and began to strip the

crystal rings from his fingers. "From what I saw of his

cavern, it's almost certain that he found these in the

city of Halapandur. That equipment he had in his cave

evidently came from there. These must have been one

of the inventions of those people before the onset of

the Tragic Millenium ..."

But Hawkmoon was barely listening to him. Instead

he was pointing out across the plain.

"Look!"

The wind was blowing up.

In the distance something gigantic and reddish pur-

ple came rolling, emitting lightnings.

BOOK TWO

As THE CHAMPION ETERNAL served the Rune-

staff, so had Mygan of Llandar (though knowingly)

and the philosopher of Yel had seen fit to deposit

Hawkmoon in a strange, unfriendly land, giving him

little information, in order, as he saw it, to further the

Runestaff's cause. So many destinies were interlinked

nowthe Kamarg's with Granbretan's, Granbretan's

with Asiacommunista, Asiacommunistas's with Ama-

rehkHawkmoon's with D'Averc's, D'Averc's with

Flana's, Flana's with Meliadus's, Meliadus's with King

Huon's, King Huon's with Shenegar Trott's, Shenegar

Trott's with Hawkmoon's; and all this on only one of

Earth's many planesso many destinies weaving to-

gether to do the Runestaff's work which was begun

when Meliadus swore upon the Runestaff his great oath

of vengeance against the inhabitants of Castle Brass

and thus set the pattern of events. Paradoxes and iro-

nies were all apparent in the fabric, would become in-

creasingly clearer to those whose fates were woven into

it. And while Hawkmoon wondered where he was

placed in time or space, King Huon's scientists per-

fected more powerful war machines that helped the

armies of the Dark Empire spread faster and further

across the globe, to stain the map with blood ...

The High History of the Runestaff

Chapter One

ZHENAK-TENG

HAWKMOON AND D'AVERC watched the strange

sphere approach and then wearily drew their swords.

They were in rags, their bodies all bloody, their

faces pale with the strain of the fight, and there was

little hope in their eyes.

"Ah, I could do with the amulet's power now," said

Hawkmoon of the Red Amulet which, on the War-

rior's advice, he had left behind at Castle Brass.

D'Averc smiled wanly. "I could do with some ordin-

ary mortal energy," he said. "Still, we must do our

best, Duke Dorian." He straightened his shoulders.

The thundering sphere came closer, bouncing over

the turf. It was a huge thing, full of flashing colors and

there was no question of swords being useful against it.

It rolled to a halt with a dying, growling noise and

stopped close by, towering over them.

Then it began to hum and a split appeared at its

centre, widening out until it seemed the sphere would

split in two. From it appeared white, delicate smoke

drifting in a cloud to the ground.

The cloud now began to disperse and a tall, well-

proportioned figure was revealed, his long fair hair held

from his eyes by a silver coronet, his bronzed body

clad in a short divided kilt of light brown color. He

appeared to have no weapons.

Hawkmoon looked at him warily.

"Who are you?" he said. "What do you want?"

The occupant of the sphere smiled. "That's a ques-

tion I should ask you," he said in a peculiar accent.

"You have been in a fight, I seeand one of your

number is dead. He seems old to have been a war-

rior."

"Who are you?" Hawkmoon asked again.

"You are single-minded, warrior. I am Zhenak-Teng

of the family of Teng. Tell me who you fought here.

Was it the Charki?"

"The name means nothing. We fought no one here,"

D'Averc said. "We are travellers. Those we fought are

a great distance away now. We came here fleeing

them..."

"And yet your wounds look fresh. You will ac-

company me back to Teng-Kampp?"

"That is your city?"

"We do not have cities. Come. We can help you

dress your wounds, perhaps even revive your friend."

"Impossible. He is dead."

"We can revive the dead as often as not," the hand-

some man said airily. "Will you come with me?"

Hawkmoon shrugged. "Why not?" He and D'Averc

lifted the body of Mygan between them and advanced

towards the sphere, Zhenak-Teng leading the way.

They saw that the interior of the sphere was, in

fact, a cabin in which several men could sit comfort-

ably. Doubtless the thing was a familiar form of trans-

port here, for Zhenak-Teng made no effort to help

them, leaving them to work out for themselves where

they should sit and how they should position them-

selves.

He waved his hand over the control board of the

sphere and the crack in the side began to seal itself.

Then they were off, rolling smoothly over the turf at a

fantastic speed, seeing dimly the landscape they passed.

The plain stretched on and on. Never once did they

see trees or rocks or hills or rivers. Hawkmoon began

to wonder if it were not, in fact, artificialor had been

artificially levelled at some time in the past.

Zhenak-Teng had his eyes pressed close to an in-

strument through which, presumably, he could see his

way. His hands were on a lever attached to a wheel

which he swung in one direction or another from time

to time, doubtless steering the strange vehicle.

Once they passed at a distance a group of moving

objects that they could not define through the shifting

walls of the sphere. Hawkmoon pointed them out.

"Charki," Zhenak-Teng said. "With luck, they will

not attack."

They seemed to be grey things, the color of dark

stone, but with many legs and waving protuberances.

Hawkmoon could not decide whether they were crea-

tures or machines, or neither.

An hour passed and at last the sphere began to slow.

"We are nearing Teng-Kampp," Zhenak-Teng said.

A little later the sphere rolled to a halt and the

bronzed man leant back, sighing with relief. "Good,"

he said. "I found what I set out looking for. That force

of Charki is feeding in a south-westerly direction and

should not come too close to Teng-Kampp."

"What are the Charki?" D'Averc asked, gasping as

he moved and his wounds began to hurt again.

"The Charki are our enemies, creatures created to

destroy human life," Zhenak-Teng replied. "They feed

from above ground, sucking up energy from the hidden

Kampps of our people."

He touched a lever and with a jolt the globe began to

descend into the ground.

The earth seemed to swallow them up and then close

above them. The globe continued to descend for a few

moments and then stopped. A bright light came on

suddenly and they saw they were in a small under-

ground chamber, barely large enough to hold the sphere.

"Teng-Kampp," said Zhenak-Teng laconically, touch-

ing a stud in the control panel which caused the sphere

to split again.

They descended to the floor of the chamber, carry-

ing Mygan with them, ducking to pass tinder an arch-

way and emerge in another chamber where men dressed

similarly to Zhenak-Teng hurried forward, presumably

to service the sphere.

"This way," the tall man said, leading them into a

cubicle which began to spin slowly. Hawkmoon and

D'Averc leant against the sides of the cubicle, feeling

dizzy, but at last the experience was over and Zhenak-

Teng led them out into a richly carpeted room full of

simple, comfortable looking furniture.

"These are my apartments," he said. "I'll send now

for the medical members of my family who may be

able to help your friend. Excuse me." He disappeared

into another room.

A little later he came back smiling. "My brothers

will be here soon."

"I hope so," said D'Averc fastidiously. "I've never

been greatly fond of the company of corpses..."

"It will not be long. Come, let us go into another

room where refreshment awaits you."

They left the body of Mygan behind and entered a

room where trays of food and drink seemed to drift,

unsupported, in the air above piled cushions.

Following Zhenak-Teng's example, they seated them-

selves on the cushions and helped themselves to the

food. It was delicious and they found themselves eat-

ing tremendous quantities of it.

As they ate, two men, of a similar appearance to

Zhenak-Teng, entered the room.

"It is too late," said one of them to Zhenak-Teng.

"I am sorry, brother, but we cannot revive the old

man. The wounds, and the time involved ..."

Zhenak-Teng looked apologetically at D'Averc and

Hawkmoon. "Thereyou have lost your comrade for

good, I fear."

"Then perhaps you can give him a good departure,"

said D'Averc, almost relieved.

"Of course. We shall do what is necessary."

The other two withdrew for about half-an-hour and

then returned just as Hawkmoon and D'Averc finished

eating. The first man introduced himself as Bralan-Teng

and the second announced himself as Polad-Teng. They

were both brothers to Zhenak-Teng and practitioners

of medicine. They inspected Hawkmoon's and

D'Averc's wounds and applied dressings. Very short-

ly the two men began to feel improved.

"Now you must tell me how you came to the land of

the Kampps," Zhenak-Teng said. "We have few strang-

ers on our plain, because of the Charki. You must tell

me of events in the other parts of the world..."

"I am not sure that you would understand the an-

swer to your first enquiry," Hawkmoon told him, "or

that we can help you with news of our world." And he

explained, as best he could, how they had come here

and where their world was. Zhenak-Teng listened with

careful attention.

"Aye," he said, "you are right. I can understand little

of what you tell me. I have never heard of any

'Europe' or 'Granbretan' and the device you describe is

not known to our science. But I believe you. How else

could you have turned up so suddenly in the land of

Kampps?"

"What are the Kampps?" D'Averc asked. "You said

they were not cities."

"So they are not. They are family houses, belonging

to one clan. In our case, the underground house be-

longs to the Teng family. Other nearby families are

the Ohn, the Sek and the Neng. Years ago there were

moremany morebut the Charki found them and

destroyed them ..."

"And what are the Charki?" Hawkmoon put it.

"The Charki are our age-old enemies. They were

created by those who once sought to destroy the houses

of the plain. That enemy destroyed himself, ultimately,

with some kind of explosive experiment, but his crea-

turesthe Charkicontinue to wander the plain. They

have unwholesome means of defeating us so that they

may feed off our life-energy." Zhenak-Teng shuddered.

"They feed off your life-energy?" D'Averc said with

a frown. "What is that?"

"Whatever gives us lifewhatever life is, they take

it and leave us drained, useless, dying slowly, unable

to move ..."

Hawkmoon began another question, then changed

his mind. Evidently the subject was painful to Zhenak-

Teng. Instead he asked, "And what is this plain? It

does not seem natural to me."

"It is not. It was the site of our landing fields, for

we of the One Hundred Families were once mighty and

powerfuluntil the coming of he who created the

Charki. He wanted our artifacts and our sources of

power for himself. He was called Zhenadar-vron-Ken-

sai and he brought the Charki with him from the east,

their vocation being entirely to destroy the Families.

And destroy them they did, save for the handful that

still survives. But gradually, through the centuries, the

Charki sniff them out..."

"You seem to have no hope," said D'Averc, almost

accusingly.

"We are merely realistic," Zhenak-Teng replied with-

out rancour.

"Tomorrow we should like to be on our way," said

Hawkmoon. "Have you mapssomething that will help

us reach Narleen?"

"I have a mapthough it is crude. Narleen used to

be a great trading city on the coast. That was centuries

ago. I do not know what it might be today."

Zhenak-Teng rose. "I will show you to the room I

have had prepared for you. There you may sleep to-

night and begin your long journey in the morning."

Chapter Two

THECHARKI

HAWKMOON AWOKE to the sounds of battle.

He wondered for a moment if he had dreamed and he

was back in the cave and D'Averc was still engaged

with Baron Meliadus. He sprang from his bed reaching

for the sword that lay on a nearby stool with his tat-

tered clothes. He was in the room where Zhenak-Teng

had left them the previous night, and on the other bed

D'Averc was awake, his features startled.

Hawkmoon began to struggle into his clothes. From

behind the door came yells, the clash of swords, strange

whining sounds and moans. When he was dressed, he

went swiftly to the door and opened it a crack.

He was astonished. The bronzed, handsome folk of

Teng-Kampp were busily at work trying to destroy one

anotherand it was not swords, after all, that were

making the clashing sound, but meat cleavers, iron bars

and a weird collection of domestic and scientific tools

utilised as weapons. Snarls, bestial and alarming, were

on all faces, and foam flecked lips, while eyes stared

madly. The same insanity possessed them all!

Dark blue smoke began to pour along the corridor;

there was a stink Hawkmoon could not define, the

sound of smashing glass and torn metal.

"By the Runestaff, D'Averc," he gasped. "They seem

possessed!"

A knot of battling men suddenly pressed against the

door, pushing it inwards and Hawkmoon found himself

in the middle of them. He pushed them back, sprang

aside. None attacked him or D'Averc. They continued

to butcher one another as if unaware of the spectators.

"This way," Hawkmoon said, and left the room,

sword in hand. He coughed as the blue smoke entered

his lungs and stung his eyes. Everywhere was ruin.

Corpses lay thick in the corridor.

Together they struggled along the passages until they

reached Zhenak-Teng's apartments. The door was

locked. Frantically, Hawkmoon beat upon it with the

pommel of his blade.

"Zhenak-Teng, it is Hawkmoon and D'Averc! Are

you within?"

There was a movement from the other side of the

door, then it sprang open and Zhenak-Teng, his eyes

wild with terror, beckoned them in, then hastily closed

and locked the door again.

"The Charki," he said. "There must have been an-

other pack roaming elsewhere. I have failed in my duty.

They took us by surprise. We are doomed."

"I see no monsters," D'Averc said. "Your kinsmen

fight among themselves."

"Ayethat's the Charki's way of defeating us. They

emit wavesmental rays of some descriptionthat

turn us mad, make us see enemies in our closest friends

and brothers. And while we fight, they enter our

Kampp. They will soon be here!"

"The blue smokewhat is that?" D'Averc asked.

"Nothing to do with the Charki. It comes from our

smashed generators. We have no power now, even if

we could rally."

From somewhere above came terrible thumps and

crashes that shook the room.

"The Charki," murmured Zhenak-Teng. "Soon their

rays will reach me, even me ..."

"Why have they not reached you already?" Hawk-

moon demanded.

"Some of us are more able to resist them. You, plain-

ly, do not suffer from them at all. Others are quickly

overcome."

"Can we not escape?" Hawkmoon glanced about the

room. "The Sphere we came in ... ?"

"Too late, too late ..."

D'Averc grasped Zhenak-Teng by the shoulder.

"Come man, we can escape if we're quick. You can

drive the sphere!"

"I must die with my familythe family I helped

destroy." Zhenak-Teng was barely recognisable as the

self-contained, civilised man they had spoken to the

day before. All the spirit had left him. Already his eyes

were glazed and it seemed to Hawkmoon that soon the

man would succumb to the strange power of the Charki.

He came to a decision, raised his sword and struck

swiftly. The pommel connected with the base of

Zhenak-Teng's skull and he collapsed.

"Now, D'Averc," Hawkmoon said grimly. "Let's get

him to the sphere. Hurry!"

Coughing as the blue smoke grew thicker, they

stumbled from the room and into the passages, carry-

ing Zhenak-Teng's unconscious body between them.

Hawkmoon remembered the way to the place where

they had left the sphere and directed D'Averc.

Now the whole passage shook alarmingly until they

were forced to stop to keep their balance. Then ...

"The wall! It's crumbling!" howled D'Averc, stag-

gering back. "Quickly, Hawkmoonthe other way!"

"We must get to the sphere!" Hawkmoon called back.

"We must go on!"

Now pieces of the ceiling began to fall and a grey,

stonelike creature crept through the crack in the wall

and into the passage. On the end of the creature was

what resembled a sucker such as an octopus would

possess, moving like a mouth seeking to kiss them.

Hawkmoon shuddered in horror and stabbed at the

thing with his sword. It recoiled; then, pouting a little,

as if only a trifle offended by his gesture and willing to

make friends, it advanced again.

This time Hawkmoon chopped at it and there was a

grunt and a shrill hiss from the other side of the room.

The creature seemed surprised that something was re-

sisting it. Heaving Zhenak-Teng onto his shoulder,

Hawkmoon struck another blow at the tentacle, then

leapt over it and began to race down the crumbling

passage.

"Come on, D'Averc! To the sphere!"

D'Averc skipped over the wounded tentacle and

followed. Now the wall gave way altogether, and it re-

vealed a mass of waving arms, a pulsing head and a

face that was a parody of human features, grinning a

placatory, idiot's grin.

"It wants us to pet it!" D'Averc cried with grim

humor as he avoided a reaching tentacle. "Would you

hurt its feelings so, Hawkmoon?"

Hawkmoon was busily opening the door that led to

the chamber of the sphere. Zhenak-Teng, who lay on

the floor near him, was beginning to moan and clutch

his head.

Hawkmoon got the door open, hefted Zhenak-Teng

onto his shoulder again, and passed through into the

chamber where the sphere lay.

No noise came from it now and its colours were

muted, but it was opened sufficient to admit them.

Hawkmoon climbed the ladder and dumped Zhenak-

Teng in the control seat as D'Averc joined him.

"Get this thing moving," he told Zhenak-Teng, "or

we'll all be devoured by the Charki you see there . . ."

He pointed with his sword to the giant thing that was

squeezing its way through the door of the chamber.

Several tentacles crept up the sides of the sphere

towards them. One touched Zhenak-Teng lightly on

the shoulder and he moaned. Hawkmoon yelled and

chopped at it. It flopped to the floor. But others were

now waving all around him and had fastened on the

bronzed man who seemed to accept the touch with

complete passivity. Hawkmoon and D'Averc screamed

at him to get the sphere moving while they hacked

desperately at the dozens of waving limbs.

Hawkmoon reached out with his left hand to grasp

the back of Zhenak-Teng's neck. "Close the sphere,

Zhenak-Teng! Close the sphere."

With a jerky movement, Zhenak-Teng obeyed, de-

pressing a stud which made the sphere murmur and

hum and begin to glow with all kinds of colours.

The tentacles tried to resist the steady motion of the

walls as the aperture closed. Three leapt through

D'Averc's defense and fastened themselves on Zhenak-

Teng who groaned and went limp. Again Hawkmoon

slashed at the tentacles as the sphere finally closed and

began to rise upwards.

One by one the tentacles disappeared as the sphere

rose and Hawkmoon sighed in relief. He turned to the

bronzed man. "We are free!"

But Zhenak-Teng stared dully ahead of him, his

arms limp at his sides.

"It is no good," he said slowly. "It has taken my

life . . ." And he slumped to one side, falling to the

floor.

Hawkmoon bent beside him, putting his hand to the

man's chest to feel his heartbeat. He shuddered in hor-

ror.

"He's cold, D'Avercincredibly cold!"

"And does he live?" the Frenchman asked.

Hawkmoon shook his head. "He is entirely dead."

The sphere was still rising rapidly and Hawkmoon

sprang to the controls, looking at them in despair, not

knowing one instrument from another, not daring to

touch anything lest they descend again to where the

Charki feasted on the life energy of the people of

Teng-Kampp.

Suddenly they were in the open air and bounding

over the turf. Hawkmoon seated himself in the control

seat and took the lever as he had seen Zhenak-Teng

take it the day before. Gingerly he pushed it to one

side, and had the satisfaction of seeing the sphere be-

gin to roll in that direction.

"I think I can steer it," he told his friend. "But how

one stops it or opens it, that I cannot guess!"

"As long as we are leaving those monsters behind,

I am not entirely depressed," D'Averc said with a smile.

"Turn the thing to the south, Hawkmoon. At least we

will be going in the direction we intended."

Hawkmoon did as D'Averc suggested and for hours

they rolled over the flat plain until, at length, a forest

came in sight.

"It will be interesting," said D'Averc, when Hawk-

moon pointed out the trees to him, "to see how the

sphere behaves when it reaches the trees. It was plainly

not designed for such terrain."

Chapter Three

THE SAYOU RIVER

THE SPHERE STRUCK the trees with a great sound

of snapping wood and tortured metal.

D'Averc and Hawkmoon found themselves flung to

the far side of the control chamber, keeping company

with the unpleasantly cold corpse of Zhenak-Teng.

Next they were flung upwards, then sideways, and

had not the walls of the sphere been well padded, they

would have died of broken bones.

At last the sphere rolled to a halt, rocked for a few

moments, then suddenly split apart, tumbling Hawk-

moon and D'Averc to the ground.

D'Averc groaned. "What an unnecessary experience

for one as weak as myself."

Hawkmoon grinned, partly at his friend's drollery,

partly in relief.

"Well," he said, "we have escaped more easily than

I'd dared hope. Rise up, D'Averc, we must strike on

strike for the South!"

"I think a rest is called for," D'Averc said, stretching

and looking up at the green branches of the trees. Sun

slanted through them, turning the forest to emerald and

gold. There was the sharp scent of pine and the earthier

scent of the birch and from a branch above them a

squirrel looked down, its bright black eyes sardonic.

Behind them the wreckage of the sphere lay amongst

tangled roots and branches. Several small trees had

been torn up and others snapped. Hawkmoon realised

that their escape had been very lucky indeed. He be-

gan to shake, now, with reaction, and understood the

sense of D'Averc's words. He sat down on a grassy hill-

ock, averting his eyes from the wreck and the corpse

of Zhenak-Teng that could just be seen to one side of

the sphere.

D'Averc lay down nearby and rolled over onto

his back. From within his tattered jerkin he drew a

tightly wadded piece of parchment, the map that

Zhenak-Teng had given him shortly before they retired

the night before.

D'Averc opened the parchment and studied it. It

showed the plain in considerable detail, marked the

various Kampps of Zhenak-Teng's people and what

appeared to be the hunting trails of the Charki. Against

most of the sites of the underground dwellings were

crosses, presumably showing which the Charki had

destroyed.

He pointed to a spot near the corner of the map.

"Here," he said. "Here's the forestand just to the

north here is marked a riverthe Sayou. This arrow

points south to Narleen. From what I can gather, the

river will lead us to the city."

Hawkmoon nodded. "Then let's head for the river

when we're recovered. The sooner we reach Narleen,

the betterfor there at least we may discover where we

are in space and time. It was unlucky that the Charki

should have attacked when they did. By questioning

Zhenak-Teng longer, we might have been able to learn

from him where we were."

They slept in the peace of the forest for an hour or

more, then rose up, adjusted their worn gear and

ragged clothes, and set off towards the north and the

river.

As they progressed, the undergrowth grew thicker

and the trees more dense, and the hills on which the

trees clung became steeper, so that by evening they

were weary and in ill-temper, barely speaking to one

another.

Hawkmoon sorted through the few objects in the

purse on his belt, found a tinder box of ornate design.

They walked on for another half-hour until they came

to a stream that fed a pool set between high banks on

three sides. Beside this was a small clearing and Hawk-

moon said: "We'll spend the night here, D'Averc, for I

cannot continue any longer."

D'Averc nodded and flung himself down beside the

pool, drinking greedily the clear water. "It looks deep,"

he said, rising and wiping his lips.

Hawkmoon was building a fire and did not reply.

Soon he had a good blaze going.

"We should, perhaps, hunt for game," D'Averc said

lazily. "I am becoming hungry. Do you know anything

of forest lore, Hawkmoon?"

"Some," said Hawkmoon, "but I am not hungry,

D'Averc."

And with that he lay down and went to sleep.

It was night, it was cold, and Hawkmoon was sud-

denly awakened by a terrified yell from Ms friend.

He was up instantly, staring in the direction D'Averc

pointed, sword leaping from his scabbard. He gasped in

horror at what he saw.

Rising from the waters of the pool, water rushing

from its huge sides, was a reptilian creature with blaz-

ing eyes and scales as black as the night. Only its

mouth, which now gaped wide, contained the white-

ness of pointed teeth. With a great slopping sound it

was heaving itself through the water toward them.

Hawkmoon staggered back, feeling dwarfed by the

monster. Its head darted down and forward, its jaws

snapping inches from his face, its loathsome breath al-

most asphyxiating him.

"Run, Hawkmoon, run!" yelled D'Averc, and to-

gether they began to stumble back into the woods.

But the creature was out of the water now and giv-

ing chase. From its throat came a terrible croaking

noise that seemed to fill the forest. Hawkmoon and

D'Averc clutched at one another's hands to keep to-

gether as they stumbled through the undergrowth, al-

most blind in the blackness of the night.

Again the croaking noise and this tune a long, soft

tongue whistled like a whip through the air and en-

circled D'Averc's waist.

D'Averc screamed. He slashed at the tongue with his

blade. Hawkmoon yelled and sprang forward, stabbing

out at the black thing with all his might, while hang-

ing to D'Averc's hand and holding his ground as best

he could.

Inexorably, the tongue drew them towards the gap-

ing mouth of the water-beast. Hawkmoon could see

that it was hopeless to try to save D'Averc in this way.

He let go of D'Averc's hand and leapt to one side, slash-

ing at the thick, black tongue.

Then he took his sword in both hands, raised it

above his head and chopped down with all his strength.

The beast croaked again and the ground shook, but

the tongue parted slowly and foul blood gushed from

it. Then there came a hideous cry and the trees began

to part and snap as the water-thing lumbered at them.

Hawkmoon grabbed D'Averc and hauled him to his

feet, pushing aside the sticky flesh of the severed

tongue.

"Thanks," D'Averc panted as they ran. "I'm begin-

ning to dislike this land, Hawkmoonit seems more

full of perils than our own!"

Crunching and croaking and crying out with in-

sensate rage, the thing from the pool pursued them.

"It's nearly on us again!" shouted Hawkmoon. "We

can't escape it!"

They turned, peering through the blackness. All they

could see now were the two blazing black eyes of the

creature. Hawkmoon hefted his sword in his hand, get-

ting its balance. "There's only one chance," he called,

and flung his sword straight at the malevolent orbs.

There was another croaking scream and a great

threshing sound amongst the trees, then the blazing

orbs disappeared and they heard the beast crashing

away, back to the pool.

Hawkmoon gasped with relief. "I didn't kill it, but

it doubtless decided we were not the easy prey it

originally took us for. Come, D'Averc, let's get to that

river as soon as we can. I want to leave this forest be-

hind!"

"And what makes you think the river is any less

perilous?" D'Averc asked him sardonically as they be-

gan to move through the forest again, taking their di-

rection from the side of the trees on which moss grew.

Two days later they broke out of the forest and

stood on the sides of a hill that went steeply down to a

valley through which a broad river flowed. It was with-

out doubt the River Sayou.

They were covered in filth, unshaven, their clothes

ragged to the point of disintegration. Hawkmoon had

only a dagger for a weapon, and D'Averc, at last rid of

his torn jerkin, was naked to the waist.

They ran down the hill, stumbling over roots, struck

by branches, careless of any discomfort in their haste to

reach the river.

Where the river would take them, they knew not.

They wished only to leave the forest and its dangers.

Though they had encountered nothing as dreadful as

the creature from the pool, they had seen other mon-

sters from a distance, discovered the spoor of more.

They flung themselves into the water and began to

wash the mud and filth from their bodies, grinning at

one another.

"Ah, sweet water!" exclaimed D'Averc. "You lead

to towns and cities and civilisation. I care not what that

civilisation offers usit will be more familiar and even

more welcome than the worst this dirty natural place

presents to us!"

Hawkmoon smiled, not entirely sharing D'Averc's

sentiments, but understanding his feelings.

"We'll build a raft," he said. "We're lucky that the

current flows south. All we need do, D'Averc, is let

the current bear us to our goal!"

"And you can fish, Hawkmoonget us tasty meals.

I'm not used to the simple fare we've lived on the past

two daysberries and roots, ugh!"

"I'll teach you how to fish, too, D'Averc. The ex-

perience might be useful to you if you find yourself in

a similar situation in the future!" And Hawkmoon

laughed, slapping his friend on the back.

Chapter Four

VALJON OF STARVEL

FOUR DAYS LATER the raft had borne them many

miles down the great river. Forests no longer lined the

banks, but instead there were gentle hills and seas of

wild corn on both sides of them.

Hawkmoon and D'Averc lived off the fat fish they

caught in the river, together with corn and fruit found

on the banks, and they became more relaxed as the

raft drifted on toward Narleen.

They had the appearance of shipwrecked sailors,

with their ragged clothes and beards that grew thicker

daily, but their eyes no longer had the wild look of

hunger and exposure and they were in better spirits

than they had been.

It was late in the afternoon of the fourth day that

they saw the ship coming up behind them and leapt to

their feet, waving to attract its attention.

"Perhaps the ship is from Narleen!" cried Hawk-

moon. "Perhaps they'll let us work a passage to the

city!"

The ship was high-prowed, made of wood painted

with rich colours. Principally it was red, with gold,

yellow and blue scroll-work along its sides. Although

rigged like a two-masted schooner it also possessed oars

which were now being used to propel it toward them.

It flew a hundred brightly colored flags and the men

on its decks wore clothes to match.

The ship struck her oars and pulled alongside. A

heavily bearded face peered down at them. "Who are

you?"

"Travellersstrangers in these partscan we sign

aboard to work our passage to Narleen?" D'Averc

asked.

The bearded man laughed. "Aye, that you can.

Come up, gentlemen."

A rope ladder was thrown down and Hawkmoon

and D'Averc climbed gratefully up it to stand on the

ornamental deck of the ship.

"This is the River Wind," the bearded man told

them. "Heard of her?"

"I told youwe're strangers," said Hawkmoon.

"Aye . . . Well, she's owned by Valjon of Starvel

you've heard of him no doubt."

"No," said D'Averc. "But we're grateful to him for

sending a ship our way," he smiled. "Now, my friend,

what do you say to our working our passage to Nar-

leen?"

"Well, if you've no money ..."

"None..."

"We'd best find out from Valjon himself what he

wants done with you."

The bearded man escorted them up the deck to the

poop where a thin man, pale and in black, stood

brooding, not looking at them.

"Lord Valjon?" said the bearded man.

"What is it, Ganak?"

"The two we took aboard. They've no money

wish to work their passage, they say."

"Why, then let them, Ganak, if that's what they de-

sire." Valjon smiled wanly.

He did not look directly at Hawkmoon and D'Averc

and his melancholy eyes continued to stare out over the

river. With a wave of his hand he dismissed them.

Hawkmoon felt uncomfortable, looked about him.

All the crew were looking on silently, faint smiles on

their faces. "What's the joke?"

"Joke?" Ganak said. "There's none. Now, gentle-

men, would you pull an oar to get you to Narleen?"

"If that's the work that will get us to the city," said

D'Averc with some reluctance.

"It looks somewhat strenuous work," Hawkmoon

said. "But it's not too far to Narleen, if our map was in

order. Show us to our oars, friend Ganak."

Ganak took them along the deck until they reached

the catwalk between the rowers. Here Hawkmoon was

shocked when he saw the condition of the oarsmen. All

looked half-starved and filthy. "I don't understand . . ."

he began.

Ganak laughed. "Why, you will soon,"

"What are these rowers?" D'Averc asked in dismay.

"They are slaves, gentlemenand slaves you are,

too. We take nothing aboard the River Wind that will

not profit us and, since you have no money, and ran-

som seems unlikely, why we'll make you slaves to work

our oars for us. Get down there!"

D'Averc drew his sword and Hawkmoon his dagger,

but Ganak sprang back signalling to his crewmen.

"Come, lads. Teach them new tricks, for they seem

not to understand what slaves must do."

Behind them, along the catwalk, clambered a great

weight of sailors, all with bright blades in their hands,

while another mass of men came at their front.

D'Averc and Hawkmoon prepared to die taking a

good quantity of the sailors with them, but then from

above a figure came hurtling, down a rope from the

crosstrees, to strike once, twice upon their heads with a

hardwood club and knock them into the oarpits.

The figure grinned and bounced on the catwalk,

putting away his club. Ganak laughed and clapped

him on the shoulder. "Good work, Orindo. That

trick's always the best one and saves much spilt blood."

Others sprang down to relieve the stunned men of

their weapons and rope their wrists to an oar.

When Hawkmoon awoke, he and D'Averc sat side

by side on a hard bench and Orindo was swinging his

legs from the catwalk above them. He was a boy of

perhaps sixteen, a cocky smile on his face.

He called back to someone above whom they could

not see. "They're awake. We can start moving now

back to Narleen."

He winked at Hawkmoon and D'Averc. "Commence,

gentlemen," he said. "Commence rowing, if you please."

He seemed to be imitating a voice he had heard. "You're

lucky," he added. "We're going downstream. Your

first work will be easy."

Hawkmoon gave a mock bow over his oar. "Thank

you, young man. We appreciate your concern."

"I'll give you further advice from time to time, for

that's my kindly nature," said Orindo springing up,

gathering his red and blue coat about him and bounc-

ing along the catwalk.

Ganak's face peered down next. He prodded at

Hawkmoon's shoulder with a sharp boathook. "Pull

well, friend, or you'll feel the bite of this in your

bowels." Ganak disappeared. The other rowers bent to

their task and Hawkmoon and D'Averc were forced to

follow suit.

For the best part of a day they pulled, with the stink

of their own and others' bodies in their nostrils, with a

bowl of slops to eat at midday. The work was back-

breaking, though it was a sign of what upstream row-

ing was like when the other slaves murmured with

gratitude for the ease of their task!

At night, they lay over their oars, barely able to eat

their second bowl of nauseating mess which was, if

anything, worse than the first.

Hawkmoon and D'Averc were too weary to talk,

but made some attempt to rid themselves of their

bonds. It was impossible for they were too weak to get

free of such tightly knotted ropes.

Next morning Ganak's voice awoke them. "All port

rowers get pulling. Come on you, scum! That means

you, gentlemen! Pull! Pull! There's a prize in sight and

if we miss it, you'll suffer the Lord Valjon's wrath!"

The emaciated bodies of the other rowers instantly

became active at this threat and Hawkmoon and

D'Averc bent their backs with them, hauling the huge

boat round against the current.

From above were the sounds of footfalls as men

rushed about, preparing the ship for battle. Ganak's

voice roared from the poop as he issued instructions in

the name of his master, the Lord Valjon.

Hawkmoon thought he would die with the effort of

rowing, felt his heart pound and his muscles creak with

the agony of the exertion. Fit he might be, but this ef-

fort was unusual, placing strain on parts of his body

that had never had to take such strain before. He was

covered in sweat and his hair was pasted to his face, his

mouth open as he gasped for breath.

"Oh, Hawkmoon . . ." panted D'Averc. "Thiswas

notmeant tobemy rolein life ..."

But Hawkmoon could not reply for the pain in his

chest and arms.

There was now a sharp jarring as the boat met an-

other and Ganak yelled: "Port rowers, drop oars!"

Hawkmoon and the others obeyed instantly and

slumped over their oars as the sounds of battle com-

menced above. There was the noise of swords, of men

in agony, of killing and of dying, but it seemed only

like a distant dream to Hawkmoon. He felt that if he

continued to row in Lord Valjon's galley, he would

shortly perish.

Then suddenly he heard a guttural cry above him

and felt a great weight fall upon him. The thing strug-

gled, crawled over his head and fell in front of him.

It was a brutish looking sailor, his body covered in red

hair. There was a large cutlass sticking from the mid-

dle of his body. He gasped, quivered, then died, the

knife falling from his hand.

Hawkmoon stared at the corpse dully for a while

until Ms brain began to work. He extended his feet

and found he could touch the fallen knife. Gradually,

with several pauses, he drew it towards him until it was

under his bench. Exhausted, he again fell over his oar.

Meanwhile the sounds of fighting died down and

Hawkmoon was recalled to reality by the smell of

burning timber, looked about him in panic, then real-

ised the truth.

"It's the other ship that's burning," D'Averc told

him. "We're aboard a pirate, friend Hawkmoon." He

smiled sardonically. "What an unworthy occupation

and my health so frail..."

Hawkmoon reflected, with some self-judgement, that

D'Averc seemed to be reacting better to their situation

than was he.

He drew a deep breath and straightened bis shoul-

ders as best he could.

"I have a knife . . ." he began in a whisper. But

D'Averc nodded rapidly.

"I know. I saw you. You're not in such bad condi-

tion, after all."

Hawkmoon said: "Rest tonight, until just before

dawn. Then we'll escape."

"Aye," agreed D'Averc. "Save as much strength as

we can. Courage, Hawkmoonwe'll soon be free men

again!"

For the rest of the day they pulled rapidly down-

river, pausing only at noon for their bowl of slops.

Once Ganak squatted on the catwalk and tickled

Hawkmoon's shoulder with his boathook.

"Another day and you'll have your desire. We'll be

docking at Starvel tomorrow."

"And what's Starvel?'" croaked Hawkmoon.

Ganak looked at him astonished. "You must be

from far away if you've not heard of Starvel. It's part

of Narleenthe most favored part. The walled city

where the great princes of the river dwelland of

whom Lord Valjon is the greatest."

"Are they all pirates?" asked D'Averc.

"Careful, stranger," Ganak said frowning. "We help

ourselves by right to whatever's on the river. The river

belongs to Lord Valjon and his peers."

He straightened up and strode away. They rowed on

until nightfall and then, at Ganak's order, ceased their

work. Hawkmoon had found the work easier, now that

his muscles and body had become used to it, but he

was still tired.

"We must sleep in shifts," he murmured to D'Averc

as they ate their slops. "You first, then I."

D'Averc nodded and slumped down almost instant-

ly.

The night grew cold, and Hawkmoon could barely

stop from falling asleep. He heard the first watch

sounded, then the second. With relief, he nudged at

D'Averc until he was awake.

D'Averc grunted and Hawkmoon was instantly

asleep, remembering D'Averc's words. By dawn, with

luck, they would be free. Then would come the difficult

partof leaving the ship unseen.

He awoke feeling strangely light in the body and

realised with mounting spirits that his hands were free

of the oars. D'Averc must have worked in the night.

It was almost dawn.

He turned to his friend who grinned at him and

winked. "Ready?" D'Averc murmured.

"Aye . . ." replied Hawkmoon with a great sigh. He

looked with envy at the long knife D'Averc held.

"If I had a weapon," he said, "I would repay Ganak

for a few indignities..."

"No time for that now," D'Averc pointed out. "We

must escape as silently as possible."

Cautiously they rose up from the benches and poked

their heads up over the catwalk. At the far end, a sailor

stood on watch; and on the poop deck above this man,

stood Lord Valjon, his posture brooding and ab-

stracted, his pale face staring into the darkness of the

river night.

The sailor's back was towards them. Valjon did not

seem about to turn. The two men heaved themselves

onto the catwalk, making stealthily for the prow.

But it was then that Valjon's sepulchral voice

sounded:

"What's this? Two slaves escaping?"

Hawkmoon shuddered. The man's instinct was un-

canny, for it was plain he had not seen them, perhaps

had only heard them for a moment. His voice, though

deep and quiet, somehow carried the length of the ship.

The sailor on watch wheeled and yelled. Lord Valjon's

deathly pale face also glared at them.

From below decks several sailors appeared, blocking

their way to the side. They wheeled and Hawkmoon

ran toward the poop and Lord Valjon. The sailor drew

his cutlass, struck at him, but Hawkmoon was desper-

ate and could not be stopped. He ducked beneath the

blow, grasped the man by the waist and heaved him

up, hurling him to the deck where he lay winded. Hawk-

moon picked up the unwieldy blade and struck off

the man's head. Then he turned to stare at Lord Val-

jon.

The pirate lord seemed undisturbed by the closeness

of danger. He continued to glare back at Hawkmoon

from his pale, bleak eyes.

"You are a fool," he said slowly. "For I am the

Lord Valjon."

"And I am Dorian Hawkmoon, Duke von Koln! I

have fought and defeated the Dark Lords of Granbre-

tan. I have resisted their most powerful magic as this

stone in my skull testifies. I do not fear you, Lord Val-

jon, the pirate!"

"Then fear those," murmured Valjon, pointing a

bony finger behind Hawkmoon.

Hawkmoon spun on his heel and saw a great num-

ber of sailors bearing down on him and D'Averc. And

D'Averc was armed only with a knife.

Hawkmoon flung him the cutlass. "Hold them off,

D'Averc!" And he leapt for the poop, grasped the rail

and hauled himself over it as Lord Valjon, an expres-

sion of mild surprise on his face, took a step or two

backward.

Hawkmoon advanced toward him, hands out-

stretched. From under his loose robe Valjon drew a

slim blade which he pointed at Hawkmoon, making

no attempt to attack but continuing to back away.

"Slave," murmured Lord Valjon, his grim features

baffled. "Slave."

"I'm no slave, as you'll discover." Hawkmoon

ducked past the blade and tried to grab the strange

pirate captain. Valjon stepped aside swiftly, still keep-

ing the long sword before him.

Evidently Hawkmoon's attack on him was unpre-

cedented, for Valjon hardly knew what to do. He had

been disturbed from some brooding trance and stared

at Hawkmoon as if he were not real.

Hawkmoon leapt again, avoiding the extended

sword. Again Valjon sidestepped.

Below, D'Averc had his back to the poop deck, was

just able to hold off the sailors who crammed the nar-

row catwalk. He called to Hawkmoon:

"Hurry up with your business, friend Hawkmoon

or I'll have a dozen skewers in me before long!"

Hawkmoon aimed a blow at Valjon's face, felt his

fist connect with cold, dry flesh, saw the man's head

snap back and the sword fall from his hand. Hawk-

moon swept up the sword, admiring its balance, and

heaved the unconscious Valjon to his feet, directing

the sword at his vitals.

"Back, scum, or your master dies!"

In astonishment the sailors began to move away,

leaving three of their number dead at D'Averc's feet.

Ganak came hurrying up behind them. He was wear-

ing only a kilt, a naked cutlass in his hand. His jaw

dropped when he saw Hawkmoon.

"Now, D'Averc, perhaps you'd care to join me."

Hawkmoon spoke almost merrily.

D'Averc circled the poop and climbed the ladder to

the deck. He grinned at Hawkmoon. "Good work,

friend."

"We'll wait until dawn!" Hawkmoon called. "And

then you'll guide this ship to the shore. When that's

done, and we're free, perhaps I'll let your master live."

Ganak scowled. "You are a fool to handle Lord

Valjon thus. Know you not that he is the most powerful

river prince in Starvel."

"I know nothing of your Starvel, friend, but I have

dared the dangers of Granbretan, have ventured into

the Dark Empire's very heart, and I doubt if you can

offer dangers more sophisticated than theirs. Fear is an

emotion I rarely feel, Ganak. But mark you thisI

would be revenged on you. Your days are numbered."

Ganak laughed. "Your luck makes you stupid, slave!

Vengeance-taking will be the Lord Valjon's preroga-

tive!"

Dawn was already beginning to lighten the horizon.

Hawkmoon ignored Ganak's jibe.

It seemed a century before the sun finally rose and

began to dapple the distant trees of the riverbank. They

were anchored close to the left bank of the river, not

far from a small cove that could just be made out

about half a mile away.

"Give the order to row, Ganak!" Hawkmoon called.

"Make for the left shore."

Ganak scowled and made no effort to obey.

Hawkmoon's arm encircled Valjon's throat. The man

was beginning to blink awake. Hawkmoon tapped his

stomach with his sword. "Ganak! I could make Valjon

die slowly!"

Suddenly, from the throat of the pirate lord there

came a tiny, ironic chuckle. "Die slowly . . ." he said.

"Die slowly..."

Hawkmoon stared at him, puzzled. "AyeI know

where best to strike to give you the maximum time and

maximum pain a-dying."

Valjon made no other sound, merely stood passive-

ly with his throat still gripped by Hawkmoon's arm.

"Now, Ganak! Give the instructions!" D'Averc

called.

Ganak took a deep breath. "Rowers!" he cried, and

began to issue orders. The oars creaked, the backs of

the oarsmen bent, and slowly the ship began to ride

toward the left bank of the wide Sayou River.

Hawkmoon watched Ganak closely, for fear the

man would attempt to trick them, but Ganak did not

move, merely scowled.

As the bank came closer and closer, Hawkmoon be-

gan to relax. They were almost free. On land they

could avoid any pursuit by the sailors who would, any-

way, be reluctant to leave their ship.

Then he heard D'Averc yell and point upward. He

stared up to see a figure come whizzing down a rope

above his head.

It was the boy Orindo, a hardwood club in his

hand, a wild grin on his lips.

Hawkmoon released Valjon and raised his arms to

protect himself, unable to do the obvious thing which

was to use his blade to strike Orindo as he descended.

The club fell heavily on his arm and he staggered

back. D'Averc rushed forward and grasped Orindo

round the waist, imprisoning his arms.

Valjon, suddenly swift-footed, darted down the com-

panionway screaming a strange, wordless scream.

D'Averc pushed Orindo after him with an oath.

"Taken by the same trick twice, Hawkmoon. We

deserve to die for that!"

Growling sailors led by Ganak were coming up the

companionway now. Hawkmoon struck out at Ganak,

but the bearded sailor blocked the blow, aiming a huge

swing at Hawkmoon's legs. Hawkmoon was forced to

leap back and then Ganak scuttled up to the poop and

faced him, a sneering grin on his lips.

"Now, slave, we'll see how you fight a man!" Ganak

said.

"I do not see a man," Hawkmoon replied. "Only

some kind of beast." He laughed as Ganak struck at

him again. He thrust swiftly with the marvellously

balanced sword he had taken from Valjon.

Back and forth across the deck they fought, while

D'Averc managed to hold the others at bay. Ganak was

a master swordsman, but his cutlass was no match for

the shining sword of the pirate lord.

Hawkmoon took him in the shoulder with a darting

thrust, reeled back as the cutlass collided with the hilt

of his blade, feeling the weapon almost fall from his

hand, recovered himself to thrust again and wound

Ganak in the left arm.

The bearded man howled like an animal and came

on with renewed ferocity.

Hawkmoon thrust again, this time piercing Ganak's

right arm. Blood drenched both brawny arms and

Hawkmoon was unwounded. Ganak flung himself at

Hawkmoon again, now in a kind of fierce panic.

Hawkmoon's next thrust was to the heart, to put

Ganak out of further misery. The point of the blade bit

through flesh, scraped against bone, and the life was

gone from Ganak.

But now the other sailors had forced D'Averc back

and he was surrounded, hacking about him with the

cutlass. Hawkmoon left the corpse of Ganak and leapt

forward, taking one in the throat and another under the

ribs before they were aware of his presence.

Back to back now, Hawkmoon and D'Averc held

off the sailors, but it seemed they must soon expire for

more were running to join their comrades.

Soon the poop was heaped with corpses and Hawk-

moon and D'Averc were covered with cuts from a

dozen blades, their bodies all bloody. Still they fought.

Hawkmoon caught a glimpse of the Lord Valjon stand-

ing by the mainmast watching from out of his deepset

eyes, staring fixedly at him as if he wished to have a

clear impression of his face for the rest of his life if

need be.

Hawkmoon shuddered, then returned his full atten-

tion to the attacking seamen. The flat of a cutlass

caught him a blow on the head and he reeled against

D'Averc, sending his friend off-balance. Together they

collapsed to the deck, struggled to rise up, still fight-

ing. Hawkmoon took one man in the stomach, struck

another's lowering face with his fist, heaved himself to

his knees.

Then suddenly the sailors stepped back, their eyes

fixed to port. Hawkmoon sprang up, D'Averc with him.

The sailors were watching in concern as a new ship

came swimming from the cove, its white, schooner-

rigged sails billowing with the fresh breeze from the

south, its rich black and deep blue paint, trimmed with

gold, all agleaming in the early morning sunshine, its

sides lined with armed men.

"A rival pirate, no doubt," D'Averc said, and used

his advantage to cut down the nearest sailor and run

for the rail of the poop. Hawkmoon followed his ex-

ample and, with backs pressed against the rail they

fought on, though half their enemies were running

down the companionway to present themselves to

Lord Valjon for his orders.

A voice called across the water, but it was too far

away for the words to be clear.

Somehow in the confusion, Hawkmoon heard Val-

jon's deep, world-weary voice speak a single word, a

word containing much loathing.

The word was "Bewchard!"

Then the sailors were upon them again and Hawk-

moon felt a cutlass nick his face, turned blazing eyes

on his attacker and thrust out his sword to catch him

through the mouth, driving the sharp blade upwards

for the brain, hearing the man scream a long, horrible

scream as he died.

Hawkmoon felt no mercy, yanked his sword back

and stabbed another in the heart.

And thus they fought, while the black and midnight

blue schooner sailed closer and closer.

For a moment, Hawkmoon wondered if the 'ship

would be friend or foe. Then there was no more time

for wondering as the vengeful sailors pressed in, their

heavy cutlasses rising and falling.

Chapter Five

PAHL BEWCHARD

As THE BLACK and blue ship crashed alongside,

Hawkmoon heard Valjon's voice calling.

"Forget the slaves! Forget them! Stand by to hold

off Bewchard's dogs!"

The remaining sailors backed warily away from the

panting Hawkmoon and D'Averc. Hawkmoon made a

thrust at them that sent them away faster, but he had

not the energy to pursue them for the moment.

They watched as sailors, all dressed in jerkins and

hose that matched the paint of the ship, came sailing

on ropes to land on the deck of the River Wind. They

were armed with heavy war-axes and sabres and fought

with a precision that the pirates could not imitate,

though they did their best to rally.

Hawkmoon looked for Lord Valjon, but he had dis-

appearedprobably below decks.

He turned to D'Averc. "Well, we've done our share

of blood-letting this day, my friend. What say you to a

less lethal actionwe could free the poor wretches at

the oars!" And with that he leapt the poop rail to land

on the catwalk and lean down to slash the knotted

ropes binding the slaves to their oars.

They looked up in surprise, not realising, most of

them, what Hawkmoon and D'Averc were doing for

them.

"You're free," Hawkmoon told them.

"Free," D'Averc repeated. "Take our advice and

leave the ship while you can, for there's no knowing

how the battle will go."

The slaves stood up, stretching their aching limbs,

and then, one by one, they hauled themselves to the

side of the ship and began to slide into the water.

D'Averc watched them go with a grin.

"A shame we can't help those on the other side," he

said.

"Why not?" asked Hawkmoon indicating a hatch

let into the side under the catwalk. "If I'm not mis-

taken, this leads under the deck."

He put his back to the side of the ship and kicked at

the hatch. Several kicks and it sprang open. They

entered the darkness and crept under the boards, hear-

ing the sounds of fighting immediately above them.

D'Averc paused, slicing open a bundle with his

much-blunted blade. Jewels poured out of the bundle.

"Their loot," he said.

"No time for that now," Hawkmoon warned, but

D'Averc was grinning.

"I didn't plan to keep it," he told his friend, "but

I'd hate Valjon to escape with it if the fight goes well

for him. Look . . ." and he indicated a large circular

object set into the bottom of the hold. "If I'm not mis-

taken, this will let a little of the river into the ship!"

Hawkmoon nodded. "While you work on that, I'll

make haste to free the slaves."

He left D'Averc to his task and reached the far

hatch, stripping out the pegs holding it in position.

The hatch burst inwards, bringing two struggling

men with it. One wore the uniform of the attacking

ship, the other was a pirate. With a quick movement,

Hawkmoon despatched the pirate. The uniformed man

looked at him in surprise. "You're one of the men we

saw fighting on the poop deck!"

Hawkmoon nodded. "What's your ship?"

"It's Bewchard's ship," replied the man wiping his

forehead, he spoke as if the name were sufficient ex-

planation.

"And who is Bewchard?"

The uniformed man laughed. "Why, he's Valjon's

sworn enemy, if that's what you need to know. He

saw you fighting. He was impressed by your swords-

manship."

"So he should have been," grinned Hawkmoon, "for

I fought my best today. And why not? I was fighting

for my life!"

"That often makes excellent swordsmen of us all,"

agreed the man. "I'm Culardand your friend if

you're Valjon's foe."

"Best warn your comrades, then," said Hawkmoon.

"We're sinking the shiplook." He pointed through the

dimness to where D'Averc was wrestling with the cir-

cular bung.

Culard nodded swiftly and ducked out into the slave

pit again. "I'll see you after this is over, friend," he

called as he left. "If we live!"

Hawkmoon followed him, creeping along the aisle to

cut the slaves' bonds.

Above him the men of Bewchard's ship seemed to

be driving Valjon's pirates back. Hawkmoon felt the

ship move suddenly, saw D'Averc come hastily out of

the hatch.

"I think we'd best make for the shore," said the

Frenchman with a smile, jerking his "thumb at the

slaves who were disappearing over the side. "Follow

our friends' example."

Hawkmoon nodded. "I've warned Bewchard's men of

what's happening. We've repaid Valjon now, I think."

He tucked Valjon's sword under his arm. "I'll try not

to lose this bladeit's the finest I've ever used. Such a

blade would make an outstanding swordsman of any-

one!"

He clambered up to the side and saw that Bewchard's

men had driven the pirate sailors back to the other

side of the ship but were now withdrawing.

Culard had evidently spread the news.

Water was bubbling through the hatch. The ship

would not last long afloat. Hawkmoon turned and

looked back. There was barely space between the ships

to swim. The best method of escape would be to cross

the deck of Bewchard's schooner.

He informed D'Averc of his plan. His friend nodded

and they poised themselves on the rail, leaping out to

land on the deck of the other ship.

There were no rowers present and Hawkmoon real-

ized that Bewchard's oarsmen must be free men, part

of the fighting complement of the ship. This, it

seemed to him, was a more sensible schemeless waste-

ful than the use of slaves. It also gave him cause to

pause and, as he paused, a voice called from the River

Wind.

"Hey, my friend. You with the black gem in your

forehead. Have you plans for scuttling my ship, too?"

Hawkmoon turned and saw a good looking young

man, dressed all in black leather with a high-collared

bloodstained blue cloak thrown back from his shoul-

ders, a sword in one hand and an axe in the other,

raising his sword to him from the rail of the doomed

galley.

"We're on our way," called Hawkmoon. "Your ship's

safe from us ..."

"Stay a moment!" The black-clad man leapt up

and balanced himself on the River Wind's rail. "I'd

like to thank you for doing half our work for us."

Reluctantly Hawkmoon waited until the man had

leapt back to his own ship and approached them along

the deck.

"I'm Pahl Bewchard and the ship's mine," he said.

"I've waited many weeks to catch the River Wind

might not have done so, had you not taken on the best

part of the crew and given me tune to sneak out of the

cove..."

"Aye," said Hawkmoon. "Well, I want no further

part in a quarrel between pirates ..."

"You do me a disservice sir," Bewchard replied

easily. "For I'm sworn to rid the river of the Pirate

Lords of Starvel. I am their fiercest enemy."

Bewchard's men were swarming back into their own

ship, cutting loose the mooring ropes as they came.

The River Wind swung round in the current, her stern

now below the water-line. Some of the pirates leapt

overboard, but there was no sign of Valjon.

"Where did their leader escape to!" D'Averc asked,

studying the ship.

"He's like a rat," Bewchard answered. "Doubtless he

slipped away as soon as it was plain the day was lost

for him. You have helped me greatly, gentlemen, for

Valjon is the worst of the pirates. I am grateful."

And D'Averc, never at a loss where courtesy and his

own interests were concerned, replied, "And we are

grateful to you, Captain Bewchardfor arriving when

things were lost for us. The debt is settled." He smiled

pleasantly.

Bewchard inclined his head. "Thank you. However,

if I may make a somewhat direct statement, you seem

in need of something to aid your recovery. Both of you

are wounded, your clothes are plainly not what you, as

gentlemen, would normally choose to wear ... I mean,

in short, that I would be honoured if you would ac-

cept the hospitality of my ship's galley, such as it is,

and the hospitality of my mansion when we dock."

Hawkmoon frowned thoughtfully. He had taken a

liking to the young captain. "And where do you plan

to dock, sir?"

"In Narleen," replied Bewchard. "Where I live."

"We were, in fact, travelling to Narleen before we

were trapped by Valjon," Hawkmoon began.

"Then you must certainly travel with me. If I can be

of assistance ..."

"Thank you, Captain Bewchard," Hawkmoon said.

"We should appreciate your aid in reaching Narleen.

And perhaps on the way you would be able to supply

us with some information which we lack."

"Willingly." Bewchard gestured toward a door set

beneath the poop deck. "My cabin is this way, gentle-

men."

Chapter Six

NARLEEN

THROUGH THE PORTHOLES of Captain Bewchard's

cabin, they saw the spray fly as the ship flung itself

downriver under full sail.

"If we should meet a couple of pirates," Bewchard

told them, "we should have little chance. That is why

we make such speed."

The cook brought in the last of the dishes and laid

it before them. There were several kinds of meat, fish

and vegetables, fruit and wine. Hawkmoon ate as spar-

ingly as possible, unable to resist at least a sample of

everything on the table, but aware that his stomach

might not yet be ready for such rich food.

"This is a celebration meal," Bewchard told them

cheerfully, "for I have been hunting Valjon for months."

"Who is Valjon?" Hawkmoon asked between

munches. "He seems a strange individual."

"Unlike any pirate I ever imagined," D'Averc put

in.

"He is a pirate by tradition," Bewchard told them.

"His ancestors have always been pirates, preying on

the river traffic for centuries. For a long time the mer-

chants paid huge taxes to the Lords of Starvel, but

some years ago they began to resist and Valjon re-

taliated. Then a group of us decided to build fighting

ships, like the pirates', and attack them on the water.

I command such a ship. A merchant by trade, I have

turned to more military pursuits until Narleen is free

of Valjon and his like."

"And how are you faring?" asked Hawkmoon.

"It is hard to say. Valjon and the other Lords are

still impregnable in their walled cityStarvel is a city

within a city, within Narleenand so far we have only

been able to curb their piracy a little. As yet there has

been no major test of strength for either side."

"You say Valjon is a pirate by tradition . . ."

D'Averc began.

"Aye, his ancestors came to Narleen many hundreds

of years ago. They were powerful and we were rela-

tively weak. Legend says that Valjon's ancestor, Batach

Gerandiun, had sorcery to aid him. They built the wall

around Starvel, the quarter of the city they took for

themselves, and have been there ever since."

"And how does Valjon answer you when you attack

his ships as we saw today?" Hawkmoon took a long

draft of wine.

"He retaliates with every possible means, but we are

beginning to make them warier of venturing onto the

river these days. There is still much to do. I would slay

Valjon if I could. That would break the power of the

whole pirate community, I am sure, but he always

escapes. He has an instinct for dangeris always able

to avoid it even before it threatens."

"I wish you luck in finding him," Hawkmoon said.

"Captain Bewchard, know you anything of a blade

called 'The Sword of the Dawn'we were told that we

should find it in Narleen?"

Bewchard looked surprised. "Aye, I've heard of it.

It is connected with the legend I told you ofcon-

cerning Valjon's ancestor Batach Gerandiun. Batach's

sorcerous power was said to be contained in the blade.

Batach has become a god sincethe pirates have

deified him and worship him at their temple which is

named after himthe Temple of Batach Gerandiun.

They are a superstitious breed, those pirates. Their

minds and manners are often unfathomable to the prac-

tical merchant kind, like myself."

"And where is the blade?" D'Averc asked.

"Why, it is the sword the pirates worship in the

Temple. It represents their power to them, as well as

Batach's. Do you seek to make the blade your own,

then, gentlemen?"

"I do not . . ." began Hawkmoon, but D'Averc

interrupted smoothly.

"We do, captain. We have a relativea very wise

scholar from the northwho heard of the blade and

wished to inspect it. He sent us here to see if it could

be bought..."

Bewchard laughed heartily. "It could be bought,

my friends,with the blood of half a million fighting

men. The pirates would fight to the last man to defend

The Sword of the Dawn. They value it above all other

things."

Hawkmoon felt his spirits sink. Had the dying My-

gan sent them on an impossible quest?

"Ah,well."D'Avercshruggedphilosophically.

"Then we must hope that you eventually defeat Valjon

and the others and put their property up for auction."

Bewchard smiled. "That day will not come in my life-

time. It will take many years before Valjon is finally

defeated." He rose from his table. "Excuse me for a few

moments, I must see how things are on deck."

He left the cabin with a brief, courteous bow.

When he had gone Hawkmoon frowned. "What now,

D'Averc? We are stranded in this strange land, unable

to get that which we sought." He took Mygan's rings

from his pouch and jingled them on the palm of his

hand. There were eleven there now, for he and D'Averc

had taken their own off. "We are lucky to have these

still. Perhaps we should use themleap at random into

the dimensions in the hope of finding a way back to

our Kamarg?"

D'Averc snorted. "We might find ourselves suddenly

at King Huon's court, or in peril of our lives from some

monster. I say we go to Narleen and spend some time

theresee just how difficult it will be to obtain the

pirate sword." He took something from his own pouch.

"Until you spoke I had forgotten that I possessed this

little thing." He held it up. It was the charge from one

of the guns used in the city of Halapandur.

"And what significance has that, D'Averc?" Hawk-

moon asked.

"As I told you, Hawkmoonit could prove useful

to us."

"Without a gun?"

"Without a gun," nodded D'Averc.

As the Frenchman replaced the charge in his pouch

Pahl Bewchard came back through the door. He was

smiling.

"Less than an hour, my friendsand we shall be

berthing in Narleen," he told them. "I think you will

like our city." Then he added with a grin: "At least,

that part which is not inhabited by the Pirate Lords."

Hawkmoon and D'Averc stood on the deck of Bew-

chard's ship and watched as it was skillfully brought

into harbor. The sun was hot in a clear, blue sky, mak-

ing the city shine. The buildings were for the most part

quite low, rarely more than four stories, but they were

richly decorated with rococo designs that seemed very

old. All the colours were muted, weathered, but none-

theless still clear. Much wood was used in the construc-

tion of the housespillars, balconies and frontages

were all of carved woodbut some had painted metal

railings and even doors.

The quayside was crowded with crates and bales

which were being loaded or unloaded onto the myriad

ships crowding the harbor. Men worked with derricks

to swing them into hatches or onto the quays, hauled

them along gangplanks, sweating in the heat of the day,

stripped to the waist.

Everywhere was noise and bustle which Bewchard

seemed to relish as he escorted Hawkmoon and

D'Averc down the gangplank of his schooner and

through the crowd which had begun to gather.

Bewchard was greeted on all sides.

"How did you fare, captain?"

"Did you find Valjon?"

"Have you lost many men?"

At last Bewchard paused, laughing good-humoured-

ly.

"Well, fellow citizens of Narleen," he shouted. "I

must tell you, I see, or you shall not let us pass. Aye,

we sank Valjon's ship ..."

There was a gasp from the crowd and then silence.

Bewchard sprang up onto a packing case and raised his

arms.

"We sank Valjon's ship, the River Windbut it

would have likely escaped us altogether had it not

been for my two companions here."

D'Averc glanced at Hawkmoon in embarrassment.

The citizens stared at the two in surprise, as if unable

to believe that two such ragged starvelings could be

anything but lowly slaves.

"These two are your heroes, not I," Bewchard con-

tinued. "Single-handed they resisted the whole pirate

crew, killed Ganak, Valjon's lieutenant, and made the

ship easy prey to our attack. Then they scuttled the

River Wind!"

There was a great cheer now from the crowd.

"Know their names, citizens of Narleen. Remember

them as friends of this city and deny them nothing.

They are Dorian Hawkmoon of the Black Jewel and

Huillam D'Averc. You have not seen braver souls nor

finer swordsmen!"

Hawkmoon was genuinely embarrassed by all this

and frowned up at Bewchard, trying to signal that he

should stop.

"And what of Valjon?" called a member of the

crowd. "Is he dead?"

"He escaped us," Bewchard replied regretfully. "He

ran like a rat. But we shall have his head one day."

"Or he yours, Bewchard!" The speaker was a richly

dressed man who had pushed forward. "All you have

done is anger him! For years I paid my river taxes to

Valjon's men and they let me ply the river in peace.

Now you and your like say 'Pay no taxes' and I do not

but I know no peace these days, cannot sleep with-

out fear of what Valjon will do. Valjon is bound to

retaliate. And it might not be only you on whom he

takes his vengeance! What of the rest of usthose who

want peace of mind and not glory? You endanger us

all!"

Bewchard laughed. "It was you, Veroneeg, if I'm not

mistaken, who first began to complain about the pi-

rates, said you could not stand the high levies they

demanded, supported us when we formed the league to

fight Valjon. Well, Veroneeg, we are fighting him, and

it is hard, but we shall win, never fear!"

The crowd cheered again, but this time the cheer was

a little more ragged and the people were beginning to

disperse.

"Valjon will take his vengeance, Bewchard," Vero-

neeg repeated. "Your days are numbered. There are

rumours that the Pirate Lords are gathering their

strength, that they have only been playing with us up

to now. They could raze Narleen if they wished!"

"Destroy the source of their livelihood! That would

be foolish of them!" Bewchard shrugged as if to dis-

miss the middle-aged merchant.

"Foolish, perhapsas foolish as your actions,"

wheezed Veroneeg. "But make them hate us enough

and their hatred might cause them to forget that it is

we who feed them!"

Bewchard smiled and shook his head. "You should

retire, Veroneeg. The rigours of merchant life are too

much for you."

The crowd had almost completely vanished now and

there were looks of anxiety on many of the faces which

only lately had been cheering the heroes.

Bewchard jumped down from the box and put his

arms around his companions' shoulders. "Come, my

friends, let's listen no longer to poor old Veroneeg. He

would make any triumph sour with his gloomy prat-

tling. Let's to my mansion and see if we can find you

raiment more befitting gentlementhen, tomorrow, we

can go about the city and buy new outfits for you

both!"

He led them through the teeming streets of Narleen,

streets that wound an apparently logic-less course, that

were narrow and smelling of a million mingled odors,

that were crowded with sailors and swordsmen and

merchants and quay workers, old women, pretty girls,

stallkeepers selling their wares and riders picking their

way among those on foot. He led them over the cob-

bles, up a steep hill and out into a square with one side

clear of houses. And there was the sea.

Bewchard paused for a moment to stare at the sea;

It sparkled in the sunlight.

D'Averc gestured toward it. "You trade beyond that

ocean?"

Bewchard unpinned his heavy cloak and threw it

over his arm. He opened the collar of his shirt and shook

his head, smiling. "Nobody knows what lies beyond

the seaprobably nothing. No, we trade along the

coast for about two or three hundred miles in each

direction. This area is thick with rich cities that did

not suffer too badly the effects of the Tragic Mil-

lenium."

"I see. And what do you call this continent? Is it, as

we suspect, Asiacommunista?"

Bewchard frowned. "I have not heard it called that,

though I'm no scholar. I have heard it called variously

'Yarshai', 'Amarehk' and 'Nishtay'." He shrugged. "I

am not even sure where it lies in relation to the

legendary continents said to exist elsewhere in the

world..."

"Amarehk!" Hawkmoon exclaimed. "But I had al-

ways thought it the legendary home of superhuman

creatures ..."

"And I had thought the Runestaff in Asiacommunis-

ta!" D'Averc laughed. "It does not do, friend Hawk-

moon, to place too much faith in legends! Perhaps,

after all, the Runestaff does not exist!"

Hawkmoon nodded. "Perhaps."

Bewchard was frowning. "The Runestafflegends

what do you speak of, gentlemen?"

"A point this scholar we mentioned made," D'Averc

said hastily. "It would be boring to explain."

Bewchard shrugged. "I hate to be bored, my friends,"

he said diplomatically, and led them on through the

streets.

They were now beyond the trading part of the city

and on a hill in which the houses were much richer

and less crowded together. High walls surrounded gar-

dens that could be seen to contain flowering trees and

fountains.

It was outside the gates of one such walled house that

Bewchard at last stopped.

"Welcome to my mansion, my good friends." He

rapped on the gate.

A covered grille was opened and eyes peered at

them. Then the gate was pulled wide and a servant

bowed to Bewchard. "Welcome home, master. Was the

voyage successful? Your sister awaits you."

"Very successful, Per! Ahaso Jeleana is here to

greet us. You will like Jeleana, my friends!"

Chapter Severn

THE BLAZE

JELEANA WAS BEAUTIFUL, a young, raven-haired

girl with a vivacious manner that instantly captivated

D'Averc. At dinner that night he fluted with her and

was delighted when she cheerfully responded.

Bewchard smiled to see them play so wittily, but

Hawkmoon found it hard to watch them, for he was

reminded painfully of his own Yisselda, his wife who

waited for him thousands of miles across the sea and

perhaps hundreds of years across tune (for he had no

way of knowing if the crystal rings had brought him

only through space).

Bewchard seemed to detect a melancholy look in

Hawkmoon's eye and sought to cheer him up with

jokes and anecdotes concerning some of his lighter and

more amusing encounters while fighting the pirates of

Starvel.

Hawkmoon responded bravely, but he still could not

rid his mind of thoughts of his beloved girl, Count

Brass's daughter, and how she fared.

Had Taragorm perfected his machines for travelling

through time? Had Meliadus found another means of

reaching Castle Brass?

The more the evening wore on, the less able Hawk-

moon was to continue a light conversation. At length

he rose and bowed politely. "I do apologise, Captain

Bewchard," he murmured, "but I am very weary. The

time spent in the galleythe fighting today ..."

Jeleana Bewchard and Huillam D'Averc did not

notice him rise, for they were engrossed with one an-

other.

Bewchard stood up quickly, a look of concern on his

handsome face. "Of course. I apologise, Master Hawk-

moon, for my thoughtlessness ..."

Hawkmoon smiled wanly. "You have not been

thoughtless, captain. Your hospitality is magnificent.

However..."

Bewchard's hand made a movement toward the bell

pull, but before he could summon a servant there

came a sudden banging on the door. "Enter!" Bewchard

commanded.

The servant who had admitted them to the garden

earlier that day stood panting in the doorway. "Cap-

tain Bewchard! There is a fire at the quaysidea ship

is burning."

"A ship? Which ship?"

"Your ship, captainthe one you came home in to-

day!"

Instantly Bewchard was making for the door, Hawk-

moon and D'Averc following rapidly behind him, Je-

leana behind them.

"A carriage, Per," he ordered. "Hurry, man!"

Within moments an enclosed carriage drawn by four

horses was brought round to the front of the house

and Bewchard climbed in, waiting impatiently for

Hawkmoon and D'Averc to join Mm. Jeleana tried to

enter, but he shook his head. "No, Jeleana. We do not

know what is happening on the quays. Wait here!"

Then they were off, bumping over the cobbles at an

alarming rate, making for the dockside.

The narrow streets were lit with torches stuck in

brackets attached to the sides of houses and the car-

riage flung a black shadow on the walls as it passed,

bumping and crashing through the streets.

At last the quayside was reached, illuminated by

more than torches, for in the harbour a schooner

blazed. Everywhere was confusion as masters of ves-

sels arrived to bully their men aboard their own craft

and move them away from Bewchard's schooner, for

fear that they, too, would be set afire.

Bewchard leapt from the carriage, closely followed

by Hawkmoon and D'Averc. He ran for the quayside,

elbowing his way through the crowd, but once by the

water he paused and hung his head.

"It's hopeless," he murmured in despair. "She's

gone. This could only have been Valjon's work . . ."

Veroneeg, his face sweating and red in the glare

from the burning ship, burst from the crowd. "You see,

BewchardValjon is taking his vengeance! I warned

you!"

They turned at the sound of galloping hooves, saw a

rider rein in his horse close by. "Bewchard!" the man

cried. "Pahl Bewchard who claims to have sunk the

River Wind!"

Bewchard looked up. "I am Bewchard. Who are

you?"

The rider was clad in bizarre finery and in his left

hand he clutched a scroll which he brandished. "I am

Valjon's manhis messenger!" He threw the scroll

toward Bewchard who let it lie where it had fallen.

"What is it?" Bewchard said between gritted teeth.

"It is a bill, Bewchard. A bill for fifty men and forty

slaves, for a ship and all furnishings, plus twenty-five

thousand smaygars' worth of treasure. Valjon, too, can

play the merchant game!"

Bewchard glared at the messenger. The light from the

blazing ship sent shadows flickering across his face. He

spurned the scroll with his foot, kicking it into the

debris-filled water.

"You seek to frighten me with this melodrama, I

see!" he said firmly. "Well, tell Valjon I do not intend

to pay his bill and that I am not frightened. Tell him

if he wishes to 'play the merchant game'that he

and his greedy ancestors owe the people of Narleen con-

siderably more than the amount on his bill. I will con-

tinue to reclaim that debt."

The rider opened his mouth as if to speak, then

changed his mind, spat on the cobbles and wheeled

his horse about, galloping away into the darkness.

"He will kill you now, Bewchard," said Veroneeg

almost triumphantly. "He will kill you. I hope he real-

ises that not all of us are as foolish as you!"

"And I hope that we are not all as foolish as you,

Veroneeg," answered Bewchard contemptuously. "If

Valjon is threatening me, it means that I have suc-

ceededpartially at leastin unnerving him!"

He stalked toward his carriage and stood aside while

Hawkmoon and D'Averc climbed in. Then he entered,

slammed the door and tapped with the hilt of his sword

on the roof, signalling the driver to return to the man-

sion.

"Are you sure that Valjon is as weak as you sug-

gest?" Hawkmoon asked hesitantly.

Bewchard smiled at him grimly.

"I am sure that he is stronger than I suggest

stronger perhaps than Veroneeg thinks. My own opin-

ion is that Valjon is still somewhat surprised that we

have had the temerity to attack his ship as we did today,

that he has not yet marshalled all his resources. But it

would not do to tell Veroneeg that, would it, my

friend."

Hawkmoon looked at Bewchard admiringly. "You

have much courage, captain."

"Desperation, possibly, friend Hawkmoon."

Hawkmoon nodded. "I know what you mean I

think.".

The rest of the return journey was made in thought-

ful silence.

At the mansion the garden gate was open and they

drove straight into the drive. At the mam door, to the

house Jeleana awaited them pale-faced.

"Are you unharmed, Pahl?" she asked as he de-

scended from the carriage.

"Of course," replied Bewchard. "You seem unduly

frightened, Jeleana."

She turned and walked back into the house, back in-

to the dining room where their supper still lay on the

table.

"Itit was not the burning ship that made me thus,"

she told him trembling. She looked at her brother, then

at D'Averc, lastly at Hawkmoon. Her eyes were wide.

"We had a visitor while you were gone."

"A visitor? Who was it?" Bewchard asked, putting

his arm around her shaking shoulders.

"Hehe came alone..." she began.

"And what is so remarkable about a visitor coming

alone? Where is he now?"

"It was Valjon, PahlLord Valjon of Starvel him-

self. He . .." she put her hand to her face. "He stroked

my facehe looked at me from those bleak, inhuman

eyes of his, he spoke in that voice ..."

"And what did he say?" Hawkmoon asked sudden-

ly, his tone grim. "What did he say, Lady Jeleana?"

Again her eyes went from one to the other, to re-

turn to Hawkmoon.

"He said that he is merely playing with Pahl, that he

is too proud to spend all his time and strength in

pursuing a vendetta against him, that, unless Pahl pro-

claims in the city square tomorrow that he will cease

bothering the Pirate Lords, Pahl will be punished in a

way that will be suitable to his particular misdemeanor.

He said that he expects to hear that the proclamation

has been made by midday tomorrow."

Bewchard frowned. "He came here, to my own house,

to display his contempt for me, I suppose. The burning

of the ship was just a demonstrationand a diversion

to get me to the quayside. He spoke to you, Jeleana, to

show that he can reach my nearest and most beloved

whenever he chooses." Bewchard sighed. "There is no

question now that he not only threatens my life, but

the lives of those close to me. It is a trick that I should

have expecteddid half-expect, yet..."

He looked up at Hawkmoon, his eyes suddenly tired.

"Perhaps I have been a fool, after all, Master Hawk-

moon. Perhaps Veroneeg was right. I cannot fight

Valjonnot while he fights from the security of

Starvel. I have no weapons such as those he employs

against me!"

"I cannot advise you," said Hawkmoon quietly. "But

I can offer you my servicesand D'Averc's herein

your struggle, should you wish to continue it."

Bewchard looked directly into Hawkmoon's face then

and he laughed, straightening his shoulders.

"You do not advise me, Dorian Hawkmoon of the

Black Jewel, but you do indicate to me what I should

think of myself if I refused the aid of two such swords-

men as yourself. AyeI'll fight on. Indeed, tomorrow

I shall spend relaxing, ignoring Valjon's warning. You,

Jeleana, I will have guarded here. I will send for our

father and ask him to bring his guards to protect you.

Hawkmoon, D'Averc and myselfwhywe'll shop

tomorrow." He indicated the borrowed clothes that the

two men wore. "I promised you new suitsand a good

sheath, I think, Master Hawkmoon, for your borrowed

swordValjon's sword. We will be casual tomorrow.

We will show Valjonand, more important, the people

of this citythat we are not frightened by Valjon's

threats."

D'Averc nodded soberly. "It is the only way, I think,

if the spirit of your fellow citizens is not to be de-

stroyed," he said. "Then, even if you die, you die a

heroand inspire those who follow you."

"I hope I do not die," Bewchard smiled, "for I

have a great love for life. Still, we shall see, my

friends."

Chapter Eight

THE WALLS OF STARVEL

NEXT DAY DAWNED as hot as the previous day

and Pahl Bewchard sauntered out with his friends.

As they moved through the streets of Narleen, it was

plain that many already knew of Valjon's ultimatum

and were wondering what Bewchard would do.

Bewchard did nothing. Nothing but smile at all he

met, kiss the hands of a few ladies, greet a couple of

acquaintances, leading Hawkmoon and D'Averc toward

the centre of the town where he had recommended a

good outfitter.

That the outfitter's shop was barely a stone's throw

from the walls of Starvel suited Bewchard's purpose.

"After midday," he said, "we shall visit the out-

fitter's. But before then we will take lunch at a tavern

I can vouch for. It lies close to the central square and

many of our leading citizens drink there. We shall be

seen to be relaxed and untroubled. We will talk of

small things and not mention Valjon's threats at all, no

matter how many efforts are made to bring the subject

up."

"You are asking a great deal, Captain Bewchard,"

D'Averc pointed out.

"Perhaps," Bewchard answered, "but I have a feel-

ing that much hangs on this day's eventsmore than

I understand at this moment. I am gambling on those

eventsfor it could be that the day could mean victory

or defeat for me."

Hawkmoon nodded but made no comment. He too,

sensed something in the air and could not question

Bewchard's instinct.

The tavern was visited, food eaten, wine drunk, and

they pretended not to notice that they were the centre

of attention, cleverly avoiding all attempts to quiz

them on what they intended to do about Valjon's ulti-

matum.

The hour of noon came and went and Bewchard sat

and chatted with his friends for a further hour before

rising, putting down his wine cup and saying, "Now,

gentlemen, this outfitter I mentioned ..."

The streets were unusually lacking in crowds as

they walked casually through them, getting closer and

closer to the middle of the city. But there were many

curtains that moved as they passed, many faces seen at

windows, and Bewchard grinned, as if relishing the sit-

uation.

"We are the only actors on the stage today, my

friends," he said. "We must play our parts well."

Then at last Hawkmoon saw his first glimpse of the

walls of Starvel. They rose above the rooftops, white

and proud and enigmatic, seemingly without gates.

"There are a few small gates," Bewchard told Hawk-

moon, "but they are rarely used. Instead they have

huge underground waterways and docks. These, of

course, lead directly to the river."

Bewchard led them into a sidestreet and indicated a

sign about halfway down. "There, my friendsthere's

our outfitter."

They entered the shop crammed with bales of cloth,

with heaps of cloaks and jerkins and britches, swords

and daggers of all description, fine harness, helmets,

hats, boots, belts and everything else that a man could

possibly want to wear. The owner of the shop was

serving another customer as they entered. The owner

was a middle-aged man, well-built and genial, with

a red face and pure white hair. He smiled at Bewchard

and the customer turneda youth whose eyes widened

when he saw the three standing in the doorway of the

shop. The youth muttered something and made to

leave.

"You do not want the sword, master?" the outfitter

asked in surprise. "I would drop my price by half a

smaygar, but not more."

"Another time, Pyahr, another time," answered

the youth hurriedly, bowed swiftly to Bewchard and

left the shop.

"Who was that?" asked Hawkmoon with a smile.

"Veroneeg's son, if I remember right," Bewchard re-

plied. He laughed. "He has inherited his father's

cowardice!"

Pyahr came up. "Good afternoon, Captain Bewchard.

I had not expected to see you here today. You did

not make the announcement?"

"No, Pyahr, I did not."

Pyahr smiled. "I had a feeling you wouldn't, cap-

tain. However, you are in considerable danger now.

Valjon will have to pursue the matter, will he not?"

"He will have to try, Pyahr."

"He will try soon, captain. He will waste no tune.

Are you sure it is wise to come so close to the walls

of Starvel?"

"I have to show that I am not afraid of Valjon,"

Bewchard answered. "Besides, why should I change my

plans for him? I promised my friends here that they

could choose clothing from the finest outfitter in Nar-

leen and I am not a man to forget a promise like

that!"

Pyahr smiled and made a dismissive gesture with

his hand. "I wish you luck, captain. Now, gentleman,

what do you see that you like?"

Hawkmoon picked up a cloak of rich scarlet, finger-

ing its golden clasp. "I see much that I like. You have

a fine shop, Master Pyahr."

While Bewchard chatted with the shopkeeper, Hawk-

moon and D'Averc wandered slowly around the shop,

picking out a shirt here and a pair of boots there.

Two hours passed before they had finally made up

their minds.

"Why do you not go into my dressing rooms and

try on the clothes?" Pyahr suggested. "I think you have

chosen well, gentlemen."

Hawkmoon and D'Averc retired into the dressing

rooms. Hawkmoon had a shirt of silk in a deep laven-

der shade, a jerkin of soft, light-colored brushed leath-

er, a scarf of purple and fine, flaring britches that were

also of silk and a purple that matched the scarf, which

he knotted about his neck. These britches he tucked

into boots of the same leather as the jerkin, which he

left unbuttoned. He drew a wide leather belt about his

waist and then clasped a cloak of deep blue over his

shoulders.

D'Averc had taken for himself a scarlet shut and

matching britches, a jerkin of shining black leather

and boots that were also of black leather and reached

almost to his knees. Over this he drew a cloak of stiff

silk, colored deep purple. He was reaching for his sword

belt when there came a shout from the shop.

Hawkmoon parted the curtains of the dressing

room.

The shop was suddenly full of menevidently pi-

rates from Starvel. They had surrounded Bewchard

who had not had time to draw his sword.

Hawkmoon wheeled and picked up his sword from

the pile of discarded clothing, rushing into the shop to

collide with Pyahr who was staggering back, blood

pumping from his throat.

Even now the pirates were backing out of the shop

and Bewchard could not even be seen.

Hawkmoon stabbed a pirate directly in the heart,

defended himself from another's thrust.

"Do not try to fight us," snarled the pirate who had

tried to stab him, "we want only Bewchard!"

"Then you must kill us before you take him," cried

D'Averc who had joined Hawkmoon.

"Bewchard goes to find his punishment for insulting

our Lord Valjon," the pirate told him and slashed at

him.

D'Averc leapt back, bringing his sword up in a

flickering movement that knocked the pirate's blade

from his hand. The man snarled, hurling the dagger

that was in his other hand, but D'Averc deflected this,

also, thrusting out to take the man in the throat.

Now half the pirates had detached themselves from

their fellows and advanced on Hawkmoon and D'Averc

who were pressed backward into the shop.

"They're escaping with Bewchard," Hawkmoon said

desperately. "We must aid him."

He thrust savagely at his attackers, trying to cut his

way through them to go to Bewchard's assistance, but

then he heard D'Averc yell from behind him.

"More of themcoming through the back exit!"

That was the last he heard before he felt a sword

hilt slam against the base of his skull and he fell for-

ward onto a heap of shirts.

He awoke feeling smothered and rolled over onto his

back. It was getting dark inside the shop and it was

strangely silent now.

He staggered up, his sword still in his hand. The first

thing he saw was Pyahr's corpse sprawled near the cur-

tains of the dressing room.

The second thing he saw was what seemed to be

D'Averc's corpse lying stretched across the bale of

orange cloth, blood covering most of his features.

Hawkmoon went to his friend, put his hand inside

his jerkin and with relief heard his heart beating. Like

him, it seemed, D'Averc had only been stunned. Doubt-

less the pirates had left them behind intentionally, want-

ing someone to tell the citizens of Narleen what befell

those who, like Pahl Bewchard, offended the Lord Val-

jon.

Hawkmoon stumbled to the back of the shop and

found a pitcher of water. He carried it back to where

his friend lay and put the pitcher to D'Averc's lips,

then he tore off a strip from the bale of cloth and

bathed the face. The blood had come from a broad but

shallow cut across the temple.

D'Averc began to stir, opened his eyes and looked

directly into Hawkmoon's.

"Bewchard," he said. "We must rescue him, Hawk-

moon."

Hawkmoon nodded bleakly. "Aye. But he is in Star-

vel by now."

"No one knows that but us," D'Averc said rising

stiffly to a sitting position. "If we could rescue him

and bring him back, then tell the city the story, think

what that would do for the citizens' morale."

"Very well," said Hawkmoon. "We shall pay a visit

to Starveland pray that Bewchard still lives." He

sheathed his sword. "We must climb those walls some-

how, D'Averc. We shall need equipment."

"Doubtless we'll find all we want in this shop,"

D'Averc replied. "Come, let us move swiftly. It is

already nightfall."

Hawkmoon fingered the black jewel set in his fore-

head. His thoughts went again to Yisselda, to Count

Brass, Oladahn and Bowgentle, wondering about their

fate. His whole impulse was to forget about Bewchard,

forget about Mygan's instructions, the legendary Sword

of the Dawn and the equally legendary Runestaff, to

steal one of the ships from the harbour and set off

across the sea to try to find his beloved. But then he

sighed and straightened his back. They could not leave

Bewchard to his fate. They must try to rescue him or

die.

He thought of the walls of Starvel that lay so close.

Perhaps no one had tried to scale them before, for

they were very steep and doubtless well-guarded. Per-

haps it could be done, however. They would have to

try.

Chapter Nine

THE TEMPLE OF

BATACH GERANDIUN

EACH WITH MORE than a score of daggers stuck

in their belts, Hawkmoon and D'Averc began to scale

the walls of Starvel.

Hawkmoon went first, wrapping cloth around the

hilt of a dagger and then searching for a crack in the

stone into which to insert the point, tap it gently into

place, praying that no one above would hear him

and that the dagger would hold.

Slowly they ascended the wall, testing the daggers as

they went. Once Hawkmoon felt a blade begin to give

beneath his foot, clung to the dagger he had just in-

serted above his head as he felt that too begin to work

loose. A hundred feet below was the street. Desperate-

ly he took another dagger from his belt and hunted for

a crack in the stone, found one and plunged the blade

in. It held, while the dagger supporting his foot fell

away. He heard a thin clatter as it landed in the

street. Now he hung, unable to move up or down, as

D'Averc tried to insert another dagger into the crack.

At last he succeeded and Hawkmoon breathed with

relief. They were near the top of the wall now. Only a

few more feet to goand no idea what awaited either

on the wall or beyond it.

Perhaps their efforts were useless? Perhaps Bewchard

was already dead? There was no point in thinking such

thoughts now.

Hawkmoon went even more cautiously as he reached

the top. He heard a footfall above him and knew that

a guard was passing. He paused in his work. Only one

more dagger and he would be able to gain the top of

the wall. He glanced down, saw D'Averc's face grim in

the moonlight. The footfalls died away and he con-

tinued tapping in the dagger.

Then, just as he was heaving himself upwards the

footsteps came back, moving much more rapidly than

before. Hawkmoon looked updirectly into the face

of a startled pirate.

Instantly Hawkmoon risked everything, sprang for

the top of the wall, grasped it as the man drew his

blade, flung himself upwards and struck with all his

might at the man's legs.

The pirate gasped, tried to regain his balance, and

then fell soundlessly.

Breathing rapidly, Hawkmoon reached down and

helped D'Averc to the top of the wall. Running along

it now came two more guards.

Hawkmoon rose, drew his sword and prepared to

meet them.

Metal clashed on metal as D'Averc and Hawkmoon

engaged the two pirates. The exchange was short, for

the two companions had little time to waste and were

desperate. Almost as one their blades struck for the

hearts of the pirate guards, sank into flesh and were

withdrawn. Almost as one the guards collapsed and

lay still.

Hawkmoon and D'Averc glanced up and down the

length of the wall. It seemed that they had not yet been

detected by others. Hawkmoon pointed to a stairway

leading down to the ground. D'Averc nodded and they

made their way toward it, descending softly and as

rapidly as they dared, hoping no one would come up.

It was dark and quiet below. It seemed a city of the

dead. Far away, in the center of Starvel, a beacon

gleamed, butelsewhere all was in darkness, save for

a little light that escaped from the shutters of windows

or through cracks in doors.

As they drew nearer to the ground they heard a few

sounds from the housesof coarse laughter and roister-

ing. Once a door opened showing a crowded, drunken

scene inside, and a pirate staggered drunkenly out curs-

ing something, falling flat on his face on the cobbles.

The door closed, the pirate did not stir.

The buildings of Starvel were simpler than those be-

yond the wall. They did not have the rich decoration of

Narleen and, if Hawkmoon had not known better, he

would have thought that Starvel was the poorer city.

But Bewchard had told him that the pirates only dis-

played their wealth on their ships, their backs and in

the mysterious Temple of Batach Gerandiun where the

Sword of the Dawn was said to hang.

They crept into the streets, swords ready. Even as-

suming Bewchard was still alive, they had no idea

where he was being held prisoner, but something drew

them towards the beacon in the center of the city.

Then, when they were quite close to the light, the

sonorous boom of a drum suddenly filled the air, echo-

ing through the dark, empty streets. Then they heard

the tramp of feet, the clatter of horses' hooves nearby.

"What's that?" hissed D'Averc. He peered cautiously

around a building and then rapidly withdrew his head.

"They're coming towards us," he said. "Get back!"

Torchlight began to flicker and huge shadows swam

into the street ahead of them. Hawkmoon and D'Averc

backed away into the darkness, watching as a proces-

sion began to file past.

It was led by Valjon himself, his pale face stark and

rigid, his eyes staring straight ahead of him as he rode

a black horse through the streets towards the place

where the beacon burned. Behind him were drummers,

beating out a slow, monotonous rhythm, and behind

them another group of armed horsemen, all richly clad.

These must be the other Lords of Starvel. Their faces,

too, were set and they sat in their saddles as stiffly as

statues. But it was that which came behind these pirate

lords which caught the watchers' main attention.

It was Bewchard.

His arms and legs were stretched out on a great

frame of whalebone fixed upright upon a wheeled plat-

form drawn by six horses led by liveried pirates. He

was pale and his naked body was covered in sweat. He

was evidently in great pain, but his lips were pressed

grimly together. On his torso strange symbols had been

painted and there were similar markings on his cheeks.

His muscles strained as he struggled to free himself

from the cords biting into his ankles and wrists; but he

was securely bound.

As D'Averc made a movement to spring forward

Hawkmoon restrained him. "No," he whispered. "Fol-

low them. We might have a better chance to save him

later."

They let the rest of the procession pass and then

crept after it. It moved slowly on until it entered a wide

square lit by a great beacon glowing over the doorway

of a tall building of strange, asymmetrical architecture

which seemed to have been formed naturally out of

some glassy, volcanic stuff. It was an ominous con-

struction.

"The Temple of Batach Gerandiun without ques-

tion," Hawkmoon murmured. "I wonder why they take

him there?"

"Let us find out," D'Averc said as the procession

filed into the temple.

Together, they darted across the square and

crouched in the shadows near the door. It was half-

open. Apparently no attempt had been made to guard

it. Perhaps the pirates believed that no one would dare

enter such a place unless it was their right.

Looking about him to see if they were observed,

Hawkmoon crept toward the door and pushed it slowly

open. He was in a dark passage. From round a corner

came a reddish glow and the sound of chanting. D'Averc

close behind him, Hawkmoon began to move down the

corridor.

Hawkmoon paused before he reached the corner. A

strange smell was in his nostrils, a disgusting smell

that was at once familiar and unfamiliar. He shuddered

and took a step back. D'Averc's face wrinkled in nau-

sea. "Ughwhat is it?"

Hawkmoon shook his head. "Something about it

the smell of blood, perhaps. Yet not just blood . . ."

D'Averc's eyes were wide as he looked at Hawk-

moon. It seemed that he was about to suggest that they

go no further; then he squared his shoulders and took a

stronger grip on his sword. He pulled off the scarf

around his throat and pressed it to nose and lips in an

ostentatious gesture reminding Hawkmoon much more

of D'Averc's normal self, and making him grin, but

he followed D'Averc's action and unwound his own

scarf and placed it to his face.

Then they moved forward again, turning the corner

of the passage.

The light grew brighter, a rosy radiance not unlike

the color of fresh blood. It emanated from a doorway at

the far end of the corridor, seeming to pulse to the

rhythm of the chanting which now grew louder and

held a note of terrible menace. The stench, too, grew

worse as they advanced.

Once a figure crossed the space from which the

pulsing radiance poured. Hawkmoon and D'Averc

stood stock still but were unseen. The silhouette van-

ished and they continued to advance.

Just as the stench assailed their nostrils, so the chant-

ing began to offend their ears. There was something

weirdly off-key about it, something that grated on their

nerves. With their eyes half-blinded by the rosy light,

it seemed that all their senses were under attack at

once. But still they pressed on until they stood only a

foot or two from the entrance.

They stared and they shuddered.

The hall was roughly circular, but with a roof whose

height varied enormously. In this it resembled the out-

ward appearance of the building, seeming to be less

artificial than organic, rising and falling in a purely

arbitrary way as far as Hawkmoon could tell. All the

glassy walls reflected the rosy radiance so that the

whole scene was stained red.

The light came from a place high in the roof and it

drew Hawkmoon's wincing gaze upward.

He recognised it immediately, recognised the thing

hanging there, dominating the hall. It was without

doubt the thing that, with his dying breath, Mygan had

sent him here to find.

"The Sword of the Dawn," whispered D'Averc. "The

foul thing can have no part in our destinies, surely!"

Hawkmoon's face was grim. He shrugged. "That is

not what we are here to take. He is what we have

come for ..." and he pointed.

Below the sword were stretched a dozen figures, all

on the whalebone frames, arranged in a semi-circle.

Not all the men and women on the frames were alive,

but most were dying.

D'Averc turned his face away from the sight but

then, his expression one of purest horror, forced him-

self to look back again.

"By the Runestaff!" he gasped. "It's barbaric!"

Veins had been cut in the naked bodies and from

those veins the lifeblood pumped slowly.

The wretched on the bone frames were being bled to

death. Those who lived had faces twisted in anguish

and their struggles weakened gradually as their blood

dripped, dripped into the pit below them, a pit that had

been carved from the obsidian rock.

It was a pit, too, in which things moved, rising to the

surface to lap at the fresh blood as it fell, then darting

down again. Dark shapes moving in the deep pool of

blood.

How deep was the pool? How many thousands had

died to fill it? What peculiar properties did the pool

contain so that the blood did not congeal?

Around the pool were clustered the Pirate Lords of

Starvel, chanting and swaying, their faces lifted up to

the Sword of the Dawn. Immediately below the sword,

his body straining on the frame, Bewchard hung.

There was a knife in Valjon's hand and there could

be no doubting the use he intended to make of it. Bew-

chard stared down at him with loathing and said some-

thing Hawkmoon could not hear. The knife glistened

as if already wet with blood, the chanting grew louder

and Valjon's hollow tones could be heard through it.

"Sword of the Dawn, in which the spirit of our god

and ancestor dwells; Sword of the Dawn, which made

Batach Gerandiun invincible and won us all we have;

Sword of the Dawn, which makes the dead come alive,

causes the living to remain living, which draws its light

from the lifeblood of Men; Sword of the Dawn, ac-

cept this, our latest sacrifice, and continue to know that

you shall be worshipped for all time while you stay in

the Temple of Batach Gerandiun; then Starvel shall

never fall! Take this thing, this enemy of ours, this up-

start, take this Pahl Bewchard of that coarse caste who

call themselves merchants!"

Bewchard spoke again, his lips writhing, but his voice

could not be heard above the hysterical chanting of the

other Pirate Lords.

The knife began to move toward Bewchard's body

and Hawkmoon could not restrain himself. The battle-

cry of his ancestors came automatically to his lips and

he screamed the wild bird-cry and voiced the words:

"Hawkmoon! Hawkmoon!"

And he dashed forward at the gathered ghouls, at the

noisome pit and its terrible denizens, the frames on

which the dead and dying were stretched below the

shining, awesome sword.

"Hawkmoon! Hawkmoon!"

The Pirate Lords turned, their chanting over. Val-

jon's eyes widened in rage and he cast back his robe to

reveal a sword that was the twin to the one Hawkmoon

carried. He cast the knife into the pit of blood and drew

his blade.

"Fool! It is a truth that no stranger who enters

Batach's temple ever leaves until his body is drained

of its blood!"

"It is your body will bleed tonight, Valjon!" cried

Hawkmoon, and he struck at his enemy. But suddenly

there were twenty men blocking his way to Valjon,

twenty blades against his one.

He lashed at them in fury, his throat clogged with the

dreadful stench, his eyes dazzled by the light from the

sword, catching glimpses of Bewchard struggling in

his bonds. He stabbed and a man died, he slashed and

another staggered back into the pit to be dragged down

by whatever dwelt there, he hacked and another pi-

rate lost a hand. D'Averc, too, did well and they held

the pirates at bay.

For a while it seemed their fury would carry them

through all the pirates to Bewchard and save him.

Hawkmoon hacked his way into the group and man-

aged to reach the edge of the terrible bloodfilled pit,

tried to cut Bewchard's bonds while he fought off the

pirates at the same time. But then his foot slipped on

the edge of the pool and he sank into it up to his ankle.

He felt something touch his foot, something sinuous and

disgusting, withdrew as fast as he could and found his

arms clutched by pirates.

He flung back his head and called: "I am sorry,

BewchardI was impetuousbut there was no time,

no time!"

"You should not have followed me!" Bewchard cried

in misery. "Now you, too, shall suffer my fate and feed

the monsters of the pit! Oh, you should not have fol-

lowed me, Hawkmoon!"

Chapter Ten

A FRIEND FROM

THE SHADOWS

"I AM AFRAID, friend Bewchard, that your gener-

osity was wasted on us!"

Even in this predicament D'Averc could not resist

the irony.

He and Hawkmoon were spread-eagled on either side

of Bewchard. Two of the dead sacrificial victims had

been cut down and they had replaced them. Below the

black things rose and dived restlessly in the pool of

blood. Above the light from the Sword of the Dawn

cast a red glow throughout the hall, cast a glow upon

the upturned, expectant faces of the Pirate Lords,

upon Valjon's face as his brooding eyes stared with a

kind of triumph at their stripped bodies which, like

Bewchard's, had been daubed with peculiar symbols.

There were strange plopping noises below as the

creatures in the pit swam about in the blood, waiting,

no doubt, for the fresh blood to fall into their pool.

Hawkmoon shuddered and barely restrained himself

from vomiting. His head ached and his limbs felt weak

and incredibly painful. He thought of Yisselda, of his

home and his efforts to wage war on the Dark Empire.

Now he would never see his wife again, never breathe

the air of the Kamarg, never aid in the downfall of

Granbretan, should that time ever come. And he had

lost all that in a vain effort to save a stranger, a man he

hardly knew, whose fight was remote and unimportant

compared with the fight against the Dark Empire.

Now it was too late to consider those things, for he

was going to die. He would die in a terrible way, bled

like a pig, feeling his strength ebbing from him with

every pulse of his heart.

Valjon smiled.

"You do not call out a bold battle-cry now, my slave

friend. You seem silent. Have you nothing to ask me?

Would you not beg for your lifebeg to be made my

slave again? Would you not apologise for sinking my

ship, for killing my men, for insulting me?"

Hawkmoon spat at him.

Valjon gave a slight shrug. "I wait for a new knife.

When that is brought and properly blessed, then I

shall slit your veins here and there, making sure that

you die very slowly, that you will be able to see your

blood feeding the ones below. Your bloodless corpses

will be sent to the Mayor of NarleenBewchard's

uncle if I'm not mistakenas evidence that we of Star-

vel do not expect to be disobeyed."

A pirate came through the hall and kneeled at Val-

jon's feet, offering him a long, sharp knife. Valjon ac-

cepted it and the pirate backed away.

Valjon now murmured words over the knife, looking

often up at the Sword of the Dawn, then he took the

knife in his right hand and raised it until its tip was al-

most touching Hawkmoon's groin.

"Now we shall begin again," said Valjon, and slowly

he started to chant the litany Hawkmoon had heard

earlier.

Hawkmoon tasted bile in his mouth as he tried to

break free of the cords that bound him. The words

droned on, the chanting rose in volume and in hysteri-

cal pitch,

". . . Sword of the Dawn, which makes the dead

come alive, causes the living to remain living ..."

The tip of the knife stroked Hawkmoon's thigh.

". . . which draws its light from the lifeblood of

Men..."

Absently, Hawkmoon wondered if, indeed, the rosy

sword did derive its light, in some peculiar way, from

blood. The knife touched his knee and he shuddered

again, cursing at Valjon, struggling wildly in the bonds.

". . . know that you shall be worshipped for all

time...".

Suddenly Valjon paused in his chanting and gasped,

looking beyond Hawkmoon to a spot above his head.

Hawkmoon craned his neck back and gasped, too.

The Sword of the Dawn was descending from the

roof!

It came slowly and then Hawkmoon could see that

it hung in a land of web of metallic ropesand there

was something else in the web, nowthe figure of a

man.

The man wore a long helmet that hid all his face. His

armour and trappings were all black and golden and at

his side he bore a huge broadsword.

Hawkmoon could not believe it. He recognised the

manif man it was.

"The Warrior in Jet and Gold!" he cried.

"At your service," said a sardonic voice from within

the helm.

Valjon snarled with rage and flung the knife at the

Warrior in Jet and Gold. It clattered on his armour and

fell into the pool.

The Warrior hung by one gauntleted hand to the

pommel of the Sword of the Dawn and carefully cut

at the thongs holding Hawkmoon's wrists.

"Youyou desecrate our most holy object," Valjon

said unbelievingly. "Why are you not punished? Our

god, Batach Gerandiun, will have his vengeance. The

sword is his, it contains his spirit."

"I know better," said the Warrior. "The sword is

Hawkmoon's. The Runestaff saw fit, once, to use your

ancestor Batach Gerandiun for its purposes, giving him

power over this rosy blade, but now you have lost the

power and Hawkmoon here has it!"

"I do not understand you?" Valjon said baffled.

"And who are you? Where do you come from? Are

youcould you beBatach Gerandiun?"

"I could be," murmured the Warrior. "I could be

many things, many men."

Hawkmoon prayed that the Warrior would be fin-

ished in time. Valjon would not remain so dazed for-

ever. He clung to the frame as his wrists came free, took

the knife the Warrior handed him, began gingerly to

cut at the thongs binding his ankles.

Valjon shook his head.

"This is impossible. A nightmare." He turned to his

fellow pirates. "Do you see it, toothe man who hangs

from our sword?"

They nodded dumbly. One of them began to run

back towards the entrance of the hall. "I'll fetch men.

Men to aid us..."

Hawkmoon sprang thensprang for the nearest pi-

rate lord and grasped him by the throat. The man cried

out, tried to wrench Hawkmoon's hands away, but

Hawkmoon bent back his head until the neck snapped,

swiftly drew the sword from the corpse's scabbard and

let the body drop.

There he stood, naked in the glow from the great

sword, while the Warrior in Jet and Gold cut at the

bonds of his friends.

Valjon backed away, his eyes disbelieving. "It can-

not be. It cannot be..."

Now D'Averc swung down to stand beside Hawk-

moon, then Bewchard joined him. Both were unarmed

and naked.

Nonplussed by their leader's indecision, the other pi-

rates made no move. Behind the naked trio, the War-

rior in Jet and Gold swung on the great sword, drag-

ging it nearer to the floor.

Valjon screamed and grabbed for the blade, wrench-

ing it from its web of metal. "It is mine! It is mine by

right!"

The Warrior in Jet and Gold shook his head. "It is

Hawkmoon's by right!"

Valjon clutched the sword to him. "He shall not have

it! Destroy them!"

Now men were rushing into the hall, bearing brands,

and the pirate lords drew their swords, began to ad-

vance on the four who stood by the pool. The Warrior

in Jet and Gold drew his own great blade and swept it

before him like a scythe, driving the pirates back, kill-

ing several.

"Take up their swords," he told Bewchard and

D'Averc. "Now we must fight."

Bewchard and D'Averc did as the Warrior instructed

and, following behind him, pushed forward.

But now it seemed that a thousand men filled the

hall. They had gleaming eyes which lusted for their

lives.

"You must take that sword from Valjon, Hawk-

moon," shouted the Warrior above the din of battle.

"Take itor we shall all perish!"

Again they were pressed back to the edge of the

bloody pit and behind them there came a slobbering

sound. Hawkmoon darted a look into the pit and cried

out in horror. "They are rising from the pool!"

And now the creatures swam toward the edge and

Hawkmoon saw that they were like the tentacled crea-

ture they had encountered in the forest, but smaller.

Evidently they were of the same breed, brought here

centuries before by Valjon's ancestors, gradually adapt-

ing from an environment of water to an environment of

human blood!

He felt a tentacle touch his naked flesh and he shud-

dered in cold terror. The peril at his back gave him

extra strength and he drove with all his might at the

pirates, seeking out Valjon who stood nearby, clutching

at the Sword of the Dawn which engulfed him in its

weird, red radiance.

Seeing his danger, Valjon moved his hand to the hilt

of the sword, called out something and waited expec-

tantly. But what he expected to happen did not occur

and he gasped, running at Hawkmoon with the sword

raised high.

Hawkmoon sidestepped, blocked the blow and stag-

gered, half-blinded by the light. Valjon screamed and

swung the rosy sword again. Hawkmoon ducked be-

neath the swing and brought his own blade in, catch-

ing Valjon in the shoulder. With a great, bewildered

cry Valjon struck again and again his blow was avoided

by the naked man.

Valjon paused, studying Hawkmoon's face, his ex-

pression one of mingled terror and astonishment. "How

can it be?" he murmured. "How can it be?"

Hawkmoon laughed then. "Do not ask me, Valjon,

for all this is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.

But I was told to take your sword, and take it I shall!"

And with that he aimed another thrust at Valjon which

the Pirate Lord deflected with a sweeping motion of

the Sword of the Dawn.

Now Valjon's back was toward the pit and Hawk-

moon saw that the things, blood streaming down their

scaly sides, were beginning to crawl onto the floor.

Hawkmoon drove the Pirate Lord further and further

toward the dreadful creatures. He saw a tentacle reach

out and catch Valjon's leg, heard the man scream in

fear and try to hack at the tentacle with his blade.

Hawkmoon stepped forward then, aimed a blow at

Valjon's face with his fist and, with his other hand,

wrenched the sword from the Pirate Lord's hand.

Then he watched grimly as Valjon was dragged slow-

ly into the pool.

Valjon stretched out his hands to Hawkmoon. "Save

meplease save me, Hawkmoon."

But Hawkmoon's eyes were bleak and he did noth-

ing, simply stood with his hands on the pommel of the

Sword of the Dawn as Valjon was dragged closer and

closer to the pit of blood.

Valjon said nothing further but covered his face

with his hands as first one leg and then the other was

drawn into the pool.

There came a long, despairing scream and Valjon

disappeared beneath the surface of the pool.

Hawkmoon turned now, hefting the heavy sword and

marvelling at the light which shone from it. He took it

in both hands and looked to see how his friends were

faring. They stood in a tight group, fighting off scores

of enemies and it was plain that they would have been

overwhelmed by now had it not been for the fact that

the pool was disgorging its terrible contents.

The Warrior saw that he had the blade and cried

out something, but Hawkmoon could not hear it. He

was forced to bring the sword up to defend himself as

a knot of pirates came at him, drove them back and cut

through them in an effort to join his friends.

The things from the pit were crowding the edge

now, slithering over the floor, and Hawkmoon realised

that their position was virtually hopeless, for they were

trapped between a horde of swordsmen on one hand

and the creatures of the pool on the other.

Again the Warrior in Jet and Gold tried to cry out,

but still Hawkmoon could not hear him. He battled on,

desperately trying to reach the Warrior, hacking off

a head here, a limb there and slowly coming closer and

closer to his mysterious ally.

The Warrior's voice sounded again and this time

Hawkmoon heard the words.

"Call for them!" he boomed. "Call for the Legion of

the Dawn, Hawkmoon, or we're lost!"

Hawkmoon frowned. "What do you mean?"

"It is your right to command the Legion. Summon

them. In the name of the Runestaff, man, summon

them!"

Hawkmoon parried a thrust and cut down the man

who attacked him. The blade's light seemed to be fad-

ing, but it could have been that it was now in competi-

tion with the scores of torches blazing in the hall.

"Call for your men, Hawkmoon!" cried the Warrior

in Jet and Gold desperately.

Hawkmoon shrugged and disbelievingly cried out:

"I summon the Legion of the Dawn!"

Nothing happened. Hawkmoon had expected noth-

ing. He had no faith in legends, as he had said before.

But then he noticed that the pirates were screaming

and that new figures had appeared from nowhere

strange figures who blazed with rosy light, who struck

about them ferociously, chopping down the pirates.

Hawkmoon drew a deep breath and wondered at the

sight.

The newcomers were dressed in highly ornamental

armor somehow reminiscent of a past age. They were

armed with lances decorated with tufts of dyed hair,

with huge notched clubs covered with ornate carvings

and they howled and shouted and killed with incredi-

ble ferocity, driving many pirates from the hall within

moments.

Their bodies were brown, their faces covered in paint

from which huge black eyes stared, and from their

throats came a strange, moaning dirge.

The pirates fought back desperately, striking down

the shining warriors. But as a man died, his body

would vanish and a new warrior would appear from no-

where. Hawkmoon tried to see where they came

from, but he was never able to do sohe would turn

his head and when he looked back a new warrior would

be standing there.

Panting, Hawkmoon joined his friends. The naked

bodies of Bewchard and D'Averc were cut in a dozen

places, but not badly. They stood and watched as the

Legion of the Dawn slaughtered the pirates.

"These are the soldiers who serve the sword," said

the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "With them, because it

then suited the Runestaff's scheme of things, Valjon's

ancestor made himself feared throughout Narleen and

its surrounds. But now the sword turns against Val-

jon's people, to take from them what it gave them!"

Hawkmoon felt something touch his ankle, turned

and shouted in horror. "The things from the pit! I

had forgotten them!" He hacked at the tentacle.

Instantly there were a dozen of the shining warriors

between him and the monsters. The tufted lances rose

and fell, the clubs battered and the monsters tried to re-

treat. But the Soldiers of the Dawn would not let them

retreat. They surrounded them, stabbing and hacking

until all that remained was a black mess staining the

floor of the hall.

"It is done," Bewchard said incredulously. "We are

the victors. The power of Starvel is broken at last." He

stooped and picked up a brand. "Come, friend Hawk-

moon, let us lead your ghostly warriors forward into

the city. Let us kill all we find. Let us burn."

"Aye . . ." Hawkmoon began, but the Warrior in

Jet and Gold shook his head.

"Noit is not for killing pirates that the Legion is

yours, Hawkmoon. It is yours so that you may do the

Runestaff's work."

Hawkmoon hesitated.

The Warrior placed a hand on Bewchard's shoulder.

"Now that most of the pirate lords are dead and Valjon

destroyed, there will be nothing to stop you and your

men returning to Starvel to finish the work we began

tonight. But Hawkmoon and his blade are needed for

greater things. He must leave soon."

Hawkmoon felt anger come then. "I am grateful to

you, Warrior in Jet and Gold, for what you have done

to aid me. But I would remind you that I would not

be here at all had it not been for your schemings and

those of dead Mygan of Llandar. I need to return

hometo Castle Brass and my beloved. I am my own

man, Warrior. I will decide my fate."

And then the Warrior in Jet and Gold laughed. "You

are still an innocent, Dorian Hawkmoon. You are the

Runestaff's man, believe me. You thought you came to

this temple merely to help a friend who needed you.

But it is the Runestaff's way to work thus! You would

not have dared the Pirate Lords had you simply been

trying to get the Sword of the Dawn, in whose legend

you did not believe, but you did dare them to rescue

Bewchard here. The web the Runestaff weaves is a

complicated web. Men are never aware of the pur-

poses of their actions where the Runestaff is concerned.

Now you must continue on the second part of your

mission in Amarehk. You must journey northyou

can go round the coast, for Bewchard, I am sure, will

lend you a shipand find Dnark, the City of the Great

Good Ones who will need your aid. There you will

find proof that the Runestaff exists."

"I am not interested in mysteries, Warrior. I want to

know what has become of my wife and friends. Tell

medo we exist in the same era?"

"Aye," said the Warrior. "This time is concurrent

with the time you left in Europe. But as you know,

Castle Brass exists elsewhere ..."

"I know that." Hawkmoon frowned thoughtfully.

"Well, Warrior, perhaps I will agree to take Bewchard's

ship and go on to Dnark. Perhaps ..."

The Warrior nodded. "Come," he said, "let us leave

this unclean place and make our way back to Narleen.

There we can discuss with Bewchard the matter of a

ship."

Bewchard smiled. "Anything, Hawkmoon, that I

have is yours, for you have done much for me and the

whole of my city. You saved my life and you were

responsible for destroying Narleen's age-old enemies

you may have twenty ships if you wish them."

Hawkmoon was thinking deeply. He had it in mind

to deceive the Warrior in Jet and Gold.

Chapter Eleven

THE PARTING

BEWCHARD ESCORTED THEM next afternoon to

the quayside. The citizens were celebrating. A force of

soldiers had invaded Starvel and routed out every last

pirate.

Bewchard put his hand on Hawkmoon's arm. "I

wish that you would stay, friend Hawkmoon. We shall

be having celebrations for a week yetand you and

your friends should be here. It will be sad for me, cele-

brating without your companyfor you are the true

heroes of Narleen, not I."

"We were lucky, Captain Bewchard. It was our good

fortune that our fates were linked. You are rid of your

enemiesand we have obtained that which we sought."

Hawkmoon smiled. "We must leave now."

Bewchard nodded. "If you must, you must." He

looked frankly at Hawkmoon and grinned. "I do not

suppose that you still believe I am entirely convinced

by your story of a 'scholar relative' interested in that

sword you now wear?"

Hawkmoon laughed. "Nobut on the other hand,

captain, I can give you no better story. I do not know

why I had to find the sword . . ." He patted the scab-

bard that now held the Sword of the Dawn. "The War-

rior in Jet and Gold here says that it is all part of a

larger destiny. Yet I am an unwilling slave to that

destiny. All I seek is a little love, a little peace, and to

be revenged upon those who have ravaged my home-

land. Yet here I am, on a continent thousands of miles

away from where I desire to be, off to seek another

legendary objectand reluctantly. Perhaps we shall all

understand these matters in time."

Bewchard looked at him seriously. "I think you

serve a great purpose, Hawkmoon. I think your destiny

is a noble one."

Hawkmoon laughed. "And yet I do not pine for a

noble destinymerely a secure one."

"Perhaps," said Bewchard. "My friend, my best ship

is prepared for you and well-provisioned. Narleen's

finest sailors have begged to sail with you and now

man her. Good luck in your quest, Hawkmoonand

you, too, D'Averc."

D'Averc coughed into his hand. "If Hawkmoon is an

unwilling servant of this 'greater destiny,' then what

does that make me? A great fool, perhaps? I am unwell,

I have a chronically poor constitution, and yet find my-

self dragged about the world in the service of this

mythical Runestaff. Still, it kills time, I suppose."

Hawkmoon smiled, then turned almost anxiously to

mount the gangplank of the ship. The Warrior in Jet

and Gold moved impatiently.

"Dnark, Hawkmoon," he said. "You must seek the

Runestaff itself in Dnark."

"Aye," said Hawkmoon. "I heard you, Warrior."

"The Sword of the Dawn is needed in Dnark," con-

tinued the Warrior in Jet and Gold, "and you are

needed to wield it."

"Then I shall do as you desire, Warrior," Hawkmoon

replied lightly. "Do you sail with us?"

"I have other matters to attend to."

"We shall meet again, doubtless."

"Doubtless."

D'Averc coughed and raised his hand. "Then, fare-

well, Warrior. Thanks for your aid."

"Thank you for yours," replied the Warrior enig-

matically.

Hawkmoon gave the order for the gangplank to be

raised and the oars to be unshipped.

Soon the ship was pulling out of the bay and into

the open sea. Hawkmoon watched the figures of Bew-

chard and the Warrior in Jet and Gold become smaller

and smaller and smaller and then he turned and smiled

at D'Averc.

"Well, D'Averc, do you know where we are going?"

"To Dnark, I take it," D'Averc replied innocently.

"To Europe, D'Averc. I care not for this destiny. I

wish to see my wife again. We are going to sail across

the sea, D'Avercfor Europe. There we may use our

rings to take us back to Castle Brass. I would see Yis-

selda again."

D'Averc said nothing, merely turned his head to look

upward as the white sails billowed and the ship began

to gather speed.

"What do you say to that, D'Averc?" Hawkmoon

asked with a grin, slapping his friend on the back.

D'Averc shrugged. "I say that it would be a welcome

rest to spend some time in Castle Brass again."

"There is something about your tone, friend. Some-

thing a trifle sardonic .. ." Hawkmoon frowned. "What

is it?"

D'Averc gave him a sidelong glance that matched

his tone. "Maybe I am not as sure as you, Hawkmoon,

that this ship will find its way to Europe. Perhaps I

have a greater respect for the Runestaff."

"You believe in such legends? Why, Amarehk was

supposed to be a place of godlike people. It was far

from that, eh?"

"I think you insist on the Runestaff's non-existence

too much. I think your anxiety to see Yisselda must in-

fluence you considerably."

"Possibly."

D'Averc stared out to sea. "Time will tell us how

strong the Runestaff is."

Hawkmoon gave him a puzzled -look before he

shrugged, walking away down the deck.

D'Averc smiled, shaking his head as he watched his

friend.

Then he turned his attention to the sails, wondering

privately if he would ever see Castle Brass again.

(This ends the third volume in the High

History of the Runestaff)