Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull

by Michael Moorcock

  Baron Meliadus frowned, for the young Duke had provided an example that others might follow. Already he was a hero in the German provinces, by all accounts. Few dared oppose the Dark Empire as he had done.

  If only Count Brass had agreed . . .

  Suddenly Baron Meliadus began to smile, a scheme seeming to spring instantly and complete into his mind. Perhaps the young Duke of Koln could be used in some way, other than in the entertainment of his peers.

  Baron Meliadus put down the parchment and pulled at a bellrope. A girl-slave entered, her naked body rouged all over, and fell on her knees to receive his instructions. (All the Baron's slaves were female; he allowed no men into his tower for fear of treachery.) "Take a message to the master of the prison catacombs," he told the girl. "Tell him that Baron Meliadus would interview the prisoner Dorian Hawkmoon von Koln as soon as he arrives there."

  "Yes, master." The girl rose and backed from the room, leaving Baron Meliadus staring from his window at the river, a faint smile on his full lips.

  Dorian Hawkmoon, bound in chains of gilded iron (as befitted his station in the eyes of the Granbretanians), stumbled down the gangplank from barge to quay, blinking in the evening light and staring around him at the huge, menacing towers of Londra. If he had never before needed proof of the congenital insanity of the inhabitants of the Dark Island, he had, to his mind, full evidence now. There was something unnatural about every line of the architecture, every choice of color and carving. And yet there was also a sense of great strength about it, of purpose and intelligence. No wonder, he thought, it was hard to fathom the psychology of the people of the Dark Empire, when so much of them was paradox.

  A guard, in white leather and wearing the white metal death's-head mask that was uniform to the Order he served, pushed him gently forward. Hawkmoon staggered in spite of the lightness of the pressure, for he had not eaten for almost a week. His brain was at once clouded and abstracted; he was hardly aware of the significance of his circumstances. Since his capture at the Battle of Koln, no one had spoken to him.

  He had lain most of the time in the darkness of the ship's bilges, drinking occasionally from the trough of dirty water that had been fixed beside him. He was unshaven, his eyes were glazed, his long, fair hair was matted, and his torn mail and breeches were covered in filth. The chains had chafed his skin so that red sores were prominent on his neck and wrists, but he felt no pain. Indeed, he felt little of anything, moved like a sleepwalker, saw everything as if in a dream.

  He took two steps along the quartz quay, staggered, and fell to one knee. The guards, now on either side of him, pulled him up and supported him as he approached a black wall that loomed over the quay. There was a small barred door in the wall, and two soldiers, in ruby-colored pig-masks, stood on either side of it. The Order of the Pig controlled the prisons of Londra. The guards spoke a few words to each other in the grunting secret language of their Order, and one of them laughed, grabbing Hawkmoon's arm, saying nothing to the prisoner but pushing him forward as the other guard swung the barred door inward.

  The interior was dark. The door closed behind Hawkmoon, and for a few moments he was alone. Then, in the dim light from the door, he saw a mask; a pig-mask, but more elaborate than those of the guards outside. Another similar mask appeared, and then another. Hawkmoon was seized and led through the foul-smelling darkness, led down into the prison catacombs of the Dark Empire, knowing, with little emotion, that his life was over.

  At last he heard another door opened. He was pushed into a tiny chamber; then he heard the door close and a beam fall into place.

  The air in the dungeon was fetid, and there was a film of foulness on flagstones and wall. Hawkmoon lay against the wall and then slid gradually to the floor. Whether he fainted or fell asleep, he could not tell, but his eyes closed and obliv-ion came.

  A week before, he had been the Hero of Koln, a champion against the aggressors, a man of grace and sardonic wit, a warrior of skill. Now, as a matter of course, the men of Granbretan had turned him into an animal - an animal with little will to live. A lesser man might have clung grimly to his humanity, fed from his hatred, schemed escape; but Hawkmoon, having lost all, wanted nothing.

  Perhaps he would awake from his trance. If he did, he would be a different man from the one who had fought with such insolent courage at the Battle of Koln.

  Chapter Two - THE BARGAIN

  TORCHLIGHT AND the glinting of beast masks; sneering pig and snarling wolf, red metal and black; mocking eyes, diamond white and sapphire blue. The heavy rustle of cloaks and the sound of whispered conversation.

  Hawkmoon sighed weakly and closed his eyes, then opened them again as footsteps came nearer and the wolf bent over him, holding the torch close to his face. The heat was uncomfortable, but Hawkmoon made no effort to move away from it.

  Wolf straightened and spoke to pig.

  "Pointless speaking to him now. Feed him, wash him.

  Restore his intelligence a little."

  Pig and wolf left, closing the door. Hawkmoon closed his eyes.

  When he next awoke, he was being carried through corridors by the light of brands. He was taken into a room lighted by lamps. There was a bed covered in rich furs and silks, food laid out on a carved table, a bath of some shimmering orange metal, full of steaming water, two girl slaves in attendance.

  The chains were stripped from him, then the clothes; then he was picked up again and lowered into the water. It stung his skin as the slaves began to lave him, while a man entered with a razor and began to trim his hair and shave his beard.

  All this Hawkmoon took passively, staring at the mosaic ceiling with blank eyes. He allowed himself to be dressed in fine, soft linen, with a shirt of silk and breeches of velvet, and gradually, a dim feeling of well-being overcame him. But when they first sat him at the table and pushed fruit into his mouth, his stomach contracted and he retched dryly. So they gave him a little drugged milk, then put him on the bed and left him, save for one slave at the door, watching over him.

  Some days passed, and gradually Hawkmoon began to eat, began to appreciate the luxury of his existence. There were books in the room, and the women were his, but he still had little inclination to sample either.

  Hawkmoon, whose mind had gone to sleep so soon after his capture, took a long time to awaken, and when at length he did, it was to remember his past life as a dream. He opened a book one day, and the letters looked strange, though he could read them well enough. It was simply that he saw no point in them, no importance in the words and sentences they formed, though the book had been written by a scholar once one of Hawkmoon's favorite philosophers. He shrugged and dropped the book onto a table. One of the girl slaves, seeing this action, pressed herself against his body and stroked his cheek. Gently, he pushed her aside and went to the bed, lying down with his hands behind his head.

  At length, he said, "Why am I here?"

  They were the first words he had spoken.

  "Oh, my lord Duke, I know not - save that you seem an honored prisoner."

  "A game, I suppose, before the Lords of Granbretan have their sport with me?" Hawkmoon spoke without emotion.

  His voice was flat but deep. Even the words seemed strange to him as he spoke them. He looked out from his inward-turned eyes at the girl, and she trembled. She had long, blonde hair and was well-shaped; a girl from Scandia by her accent.

  "I know nothing, my lord, only that I must please you in any way you desire."

  Hawkmoon nodded slightly and glanced about the room.

  "They prepare me for some torture or display, I would guess," he said to himself.

  The room had no windows, but by the quality of the air Hawkmoon judged that they were still underground, probably in the prison catacombs somewhere. He measured the passing of time by the lamps; they seemed to be filled about once a day. He stayed in the room for a fortnight or so before he again saw the wolf who had visited him in his eel).

  The door opened without cer
emony, and in stepped the tall figure, dressed in black leather from head to foot, with a long sword (black-hilted) in a black leather scabbard. The black wolf-mask hid the whole head. From it issued the rich, musical voice he had only half-heard before.

  "So our prisoner seems restored to his former wit and fit-ness."

  The two girl slaves bowed and withdrew. Hawkmoon rose from the bed on which he had lain most of the time since his arrival. He swung his body off the bed and got to his feet

  "Good. Quite fit, Duke von Koln?"

  "Aye." Hawkmoon's voice contained no inflection. He yawned unself-consciously, decided there was little point in standing after all, and resumed his former position on the bed.

  "I take it that you know me," said the wolf, a hint of impatience in his voice.

  "No."

  "You have not guessed?"

  Hawkmoon made no reply.

  The wolf moved across the room and stood by the table, which had a huge crystal bowl of fruit on it. His gloved hand picked up a pomegranate, and the wolf-mask bent as if inspecting it. "You are fully recovered, my lord?"

  "It would seem so," answered Hawkmoon. "I have a great sense of well-being. All my needs are attended to, as, I believe, you ordered. And now, I presume, you intend to make some sport with me?"

  "That does not seem to disturb you."

  Hawkmoon shrugged. "It will end eventually."

  "It could last a lifetime. "We of Granbretan are inventive."

  "A lifetime is not so long."

  "As it happens," the wolf told him, tossing the fruit from hand to hand, "we were thinking of sparing you the discomfort."

  Hawkmoon's face showed no expression.

  "You are very self-contained, my lord Duke," the wolf continued. "Strangely so, since you live only because of the whim of your enemies - those same enemies who slew your father so disgracefully."

  Hawkmoon's brows contracted as if in faint recollection.

  "I remember that," he said vaguely. "My father. The Old Duke."

  The wolf threw the pomegranate to the floor and raised the mask. The handsome, black-bearded features were revealed.

  "It was I, Baron Meliadus of Kroiden, who slew him." There was a goading smile on the full lips.

  "Baron Meliadus . . . ? Ah . . . who slew him?"

  "All the manliness has gone from you, my lord," Baron Meliadus murmured. "Or do you seek to deceive us in the hope that you may turn traitor upon us again?"

  Hawkmoon pursed his lips. "I am tired," he said.

  Meliadus's eyes were puzzled and almost angry. "I killed your father!"

  "So you said."

  "Well!" Disconcerted, Meliadus turned away and paced toward the door, then wheeled around again. "That is not what I came here to discuss. It seems, however, strange that you should profess no hatred or wish for vengeance against me."

  Hawkmoon himself began to feel bored, wishing that Meliadus would leave him in peace. The man's tense manner and his half-hysterical expressions discomfited him rather as the buzzing of a mosquito could be distracting to a man wishing to sleep.

  "I feel nothing," Hawkmoon replied, hoping that this would satisfy the intruder.

  "You have no spirit left!" Meliadus exclaimed angrily.

  "No spirit! Defeat and capture have robbed you of it!"

  "Perhaps. Now, I am tired. ..."

  "I came to offer you the return of your lands," Meliadus went on. "An entirely autonomous state within our Empire.

  More than we have ever offered a conquered land before."

  Now just a trace of curiosity stirred in Hawkmoon. "Why is that?" he said.

  "We wish to strike a bargain with you-to our mutual benefit. We need a man who is crafty and war skilled, as you are" - Baron Meliadus frowned in doubt - "or seemed to be.

  And we need someone who would be trusted by those who do not trust Granbretan." This was not at all the way Meliadus had intended to present the bargain, but Hawkmoon's strange lack of emotion had disconcerted him. "We wish you to perform an errand for us. In return - your lands."

  "I would like to go home," Hawkmoon nodded. "The meadows of my childhood . . ." He smiled in reminiscence.

  Shocked by a display of what he mistook for sentimental-ity, Baron Meliadus snapped, "What you do when you return - whether you make daisy chains or build castles - is of no interest to us. You will return, however, only if you perform your mission faithfully."

  Hawkmoon's introverted eyes glanced up at Meliadus.

  "You think I have lost my reason, perhaps, my lord?"

  "I'm not sure. We have means of discovering that. Our sorcerer-scientists will make certain tests. . . ."

  "I am sane, Baron Meliadus. Saner, maybe, than I ever was. You have nothing to fear from me."

  Baron Meliadus raised his eyes to the ceiling. "By the Runestaff, will no one take sides?" He opened the door. "We will find out about you, Duke von Koln. You will be sent for later today!"

  After Baron Meliadus had left, Hawkmoon continued to lie on the bed. The interview was quickly gone from his mind and only half-remembered when, in two or three hours, pig-masked guards entered the chamber and told him to accompany them.

  Hawkmoon was led through many passages, marching steadily upward until they reached a great iron door. One of the guards banged on it with the butt of his flame-lance, and it creaked open to admit fresh air and daylight. Waiting beyond the door was a detachment of guards in purple armor and cloaks, with the purple masks of the Order of the Bull covering their faces. Hawkmoon was handed over to them and, looking about him, saw that he stood in a wide courtyard that but for a gravel path was covered by a fine lawn. A high wall, in which was set a narrow gate, surrounded the lawn, and on it paced guards of the Order of the Pig. Behind the wall jutted the gloomy towers of the city.

  Hawkmoon was guided along the path to the gate, through the gate, and into a narrow street where a carriage of gilded ebony, fashioned in the shape of a two-headed horse, awaited him. Into this he climbed, accompanied by two silent guards.

  The carriage began to move. Through a chink in its curtains, Hawkmoon saw the towers as they passed. It was sunset, and a lurid light suffused the city

  Eventually the carriage stopped. Hawkmoon passively allowed the guards to lead him out of it and saw at once that he had come to the palace of the King-Emperor Huon.

  The palace rose, tier upon tier, almost out of sight. Four great towers surmounted it, and these towers glowed with a deep golden light. The palace was decorated with bas-reliefs depicting strange rites, battle scenes, famous episodes in Granbretan's long history, gargoyles, figurines, abstract shapes -

  the whole a grotesque and fantastic structure that had been built over centuries. Every kind of building material had been used in its construction and then colored, so that the building shone with a mixture of shades covering the entire spectrum.

  And there was no order to the placing of the color, no attempt to match or contrast. One color flowed into the next, straining the eye, offending the brain. The palace of a madman, over-shadowing, in its impression of insanity, the rest of the city.

  At its gates yet another set of guards awaited Hawkmoon.

  These were garbed in the masks and armor of the Order of the Mantis, the Order to which King Huon himself belonged.

  Their elaborate insect masks were covered in jewels, with antennae of platinum wire and eyes faceted with a score or more of different gemstones. The men had long, thin legs and arms and slender bodies encased in insectlike plate armor of black, gold, and green. When they spoke their secret language to each other, it was the rustle and click of insect voices.

  For the first time, Hawkmoon felt disturbed as these guards led him into the lower passages of the palace, the walls of which were of deep scarlet metal that reflected distorted images as they moved.

  At last they entered a large, high-ceilinged hall whose dark walls were veined, like marble, with white, green, and pink.

  But these veins moved consta
ntly, flickering and changing course the length and breadth of the walls and ceiling.

  The floor of the hall, which was the best part of a quarter of a mile long and almost as wide, was filled at intervals by devices that Hawkmoon took to be machines of some de-scription, though he could not understand their function. Like everything he had seen since arriving in Londra, these machines were ornate, much decorated, built from precious metals and semiprecious stones. There were instruments set into them unlike anything he knew, and many of the instruments were active, registering, counting, measuring, tended by men who wore the serpent-masks of the Order of the Snake - the Order that consisted solely of sorcerers and scientists in the service of the King-Emperor. They were shrouded in mottled cloaks with cowls half-drawn over their heads.

  Down the central aisle a figure paced toward Hawkmoon, waving to the guards to dismiss.

  Hawkmoon judged this man high in the Order, for his serpent mask was much more ornate than those of the others.

  He might even be the Grand Constable, by his bearing and general demeanor.

  "My lord Duke, greetings."

  Hawkmoon acknowledged the bow with a slight one of his own, many of the habits of his former life still being with him.

  "I am Baron Kalan of Vitall, Chief Scientist to the King-Emperor. You are to be my guest for a day or so, I understand. Welcome to my apartments and laboratories."

  "Thank you. What do you wish me to do?" Hawkmoon asked abstractedly.

  "First, I hope you will dine with me."

  Baron Kalan signaled graciously for Hawkmoon to precede him, and they walked the length of the hall, passing many peculiar constructions, until they arrived at a door that led to what were obviously the Baron's private apartments. A meal was already laid. It was comparatively simple, judged against what Hawkmoon had been eating over the past fortnight, but it was well cooked and tasty. When they had finished, Baron Kalan, who had already removed his mask to reveal a pale, middle-aged face with a whispy white beard and thinning hair, poured wine for them both. They had scarcely spoken during the meal.