Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull

by Michael Moorcock

  "You think we have not, then, witnessed the worst of what they can do?" Count Brass asked seriously.

  "That is what I think," Hawkmoon said. "It is not only the need for vengeance that makes me slay them as I do - it is a deeper thing within me that sees them as a threat to the forces of Life itself."

  Count Brass sighed. "Perhaps you are right, I do not know.

  Only the Runestaff could prove you right or wrong."

  Hawkmoon got up stiffly. "I have not seen Yisselda since we returned," he said.

  "She went to her bed early, I think," Bowgentle told him.

  Hawkmoon was disappointed. He had looked forward to her welcome. Had wanted to tell her of his victories. It surprised him that she had not been there to greet him.

  He shrugged. "Well, I think I'll to mine," he said. "Good night, gentlemen."

  They had spoken little of their triumph since returning.

  Now they were experiencing the reaction to their day's work, and it all seemed a trifle remote, though tomorrow, doubtless, they would celebrate.

  When he reached his room it was in darkness, but Hawkmoon sensed something odd and drew his sword before fumbling his way to a table and turning up the lamp that stood there.

  Someone lay on his bed, smiling at him. It was Yisselda.

  "I heard of your exploits," said she, "and wanted to give you a private welcome. You are a great hero, Dorian."

  Hawkmoon felt his breathing become more rapid, felt his heart begin to pound. "Oh, Yisselda . . ."

  Slowly, step by step, he advanced toward the prone girl, his conscience in conflict with his desire.

  "You love me, Dorian, I know," she said softly. "Do you deny it?"

  He could not. He spoke thickly. "You ... are ... very .. bold ..." he said, trying to smile.

  "Aye-for you seem extraordinarily shy, I am not immodest."

  "I - I am not shy, Yisselda, But no good could come of this. I am doomed - the Black Jewel ..."

  "What is the Jewel?"

  Hesitantly, he told her everything, told her that he did not know how many months Count Brass's sorcerous chains could hold the life force of the Jewel, told her that when its power was released, the Lords of the Dark Empire would be able to destroy his mind.

  "So you see-you must not become attached to me.... It would be worse if you did."

  "But this Malagigi - why do you not seek his aid?"

  "The journey would take months. I might waste my remaining time on a fruitless quest."

  "If you loved me," she said as he sat down on the bed beside her and took her hand, "you would risk that."

  "Aye," he said thoughtfully. "I would. Perhaps you are right. ..."

  She reached up and drew his face toward hers, kissing his lips. The gesture was artless but full of sweetness.

  Now he could not restrain himself. He kissed her passionately, held her close. "I will go to Persia," he said at length, "though the way will be perilous, for once I leave the safety of the Kamarg, Meliadus's forces will seek me out. . . ."

  "You will come back," she said with conviction. "I know you will come back. My love will draw you to me."

  "And mine to you?" He stroked her face gently. "Aye - that could be so."

  "Tomorrow," she said. "Leave tomorrow and waste no time. Tonight . . ."

  She kissed him again, and he returned her passion fiercely.

  Book Three

  The histories then tell how, leaving the Kamarg, Hawkmoon flew eastward on a giant scarlet bird that bore him a thousand miles or more before it came to the mountains bordering the lands of the Greeks and the Bulgars. ...

  —The High History of the Runestaff

  Chapter One - OLADAHN

  THE FLAMINGO was surprisingly easy to ride, as. Count Brass had assured him it would be. It responded to commands in the manner of a horse, by means of the reins attached to its curved beak, and was so graceful that never once did Hawkmoon fear falling. In spite of the bird's refusal to fly when it rained, it carried him ten times more swiftly than a horse, needing to rest only for a short time at midday and sleeping, like Hawkmoon, at night.

  The high, soft saddle, with its curved pommel, was comfortable, and from it hung panniers of provisions. A harness secured Hawkmoon in this saddle. Its long neck stretched straight before him, its great wings beating slowly, the scarlet bird bore him over the mountains, valleys, forests, and plains.

  Hawkmoon always tried to let the bird come down near rivers or lakes where it could find food to its liking.

  Occasionally, Hawkmoon's head would throb, reminding him of the urgency of his mission, but as his winged mount took him farther and farther eastward and the air grew steadily warmer, Hawkmoon's spirits began to rise, and it seemed that the possibilities of returning soon to Yisselda were increasing.

  About a week after he had left the Kamarg, he was flying over a range of craggy mountains looking for a place to land It was late evening, and the bird was wearying, dropping lower and lower until the gloomy peaks were all around them and still no water could be seen. Then, suddenly Hawkmoon saw the figure of a man on the rocky slopes below and, almost instantly, the flamingo screamed, flapping its wings wildly, rocking in the air. Hawkmoon saw a long arrow jutting from its side. A second arrow thudded into the bird's neck, and with a croak, it began to fall rapidly toward the ground.

  Hawkmoon clung to the pommel of his saddle as the air tore through his hair. He saw the rock rise up, felt a great concus-sion, and then his head had struck something and he seemed to tumble sickeningly into a black, bottomless well.

  Hawkmoon awoke in panic. It seemed that the Black Jewel had been given its life and was even now gnawing at his brain like a rat at a grain sack. He put both hands to his head and felt cuts and bumps, realizing with relief that the pain was physical, resulting from his crash to earth. It was dark, and it seemed that he lay in a cave. Peering forward he saw the flicker of firelight beyond the cave's entrance. He got up and began to make his way toward it.

  Near the opening, his foot stumbled against something and he saw his gear piled on the floor. Everything was neatly stacked - saddle, panniers, sword, and dagger. He reached for the sword and softly withdrew it from its scabbard; then he went out.

  His face was struck by the heat from a great bonfire a short distance away. Over it, a spit had been constructed, and on the spit turned the huge carcass of the flamingo, trussed, plucked, and bereft of head and claws. Turning the spit by means of a complicated arrangement of leather thongs, which he dampened from time to time, was the stocky figure of a man almost half Hawkmoon's size.

  As Hawkmoon approached, the little man turned, yelled when he saw the blade in Hawkmoon's hand, and jumped away from the fire. The Duke of Koln was astonished; the little man's face was covered with fine, reddish hair and thicker fur of the same color seemed to cover his body. He was dressed in a leather jerkin and a leather divided kilt supported by a wide belt. On his feet were boots of soft doeskin, and he wore a cap into which were stuck four or five of the fittest flamingo feathers, doubtless purloined from the bird's plumage during the plucking.

  He backed away from Hawkmoon, hands raised in a placatory gesture. "Forgive me, master. I am deeply regretful, I assure you. Had I but known that the bird bore a rider, I would not, of course, have shot it. But all I saw was a dinner not to be missed. . . ."

  Hawkmoon lowered the sword. "Who are you? Indeed - what are you?" He put one hand to his head. The heat from the fire and the exertion had made him dizzy.

  "I am Oladahn, kin to the Mountain Giants," began the little man. "Well-known in these parts . . ."

  "Giant? Giant!" Hawkmoon laughed hoarsely, swayed, and fell, losing consciousness again.

  Next time he awoke, it was to sniff the delicious smell of roasting fowl. He savored it before he realized what it meant.

  He had been propped up just within the cave entrance, and his sword had vanished. The little furry man came hesitantly forward, offering him an enormous drumstick
.

  "Eat, master, and you'll feel better," said Oladahn.

  Hawkmoon accepted the great piece of meat. "I suppose I might as well," said he, "since you have robbed me, almost certainly, of everything I desired."

  "You were fond of the bird, master ?"

  "No - but I am in mortal danger, and the flamingo was my only hope of escape." Hawkmoon chewed at the tough flesh.

  "Someone pursues you, then?"

  "Something pursues me - an unusual and disgusting doom. . . ." And Hawkmoon found himself telling his tale to the creature whose action had brought that doom closer.

  Even as he spoke, he found it hard to understand why he confided in Oladahn. There was something so grave about his half-human face, something so attentive about the way he cocked his little head, his eyes widening at each new detail, that Hawkmoon's natural reticence was forgotten. "And now here I am," he concluded at last, "eating the bird that was to be my possible salvation."

  "It is an ironic tale, my lord," Oladahn sighed, wiping grease from his whiskers, "and it clouds my heart to realize that it was my greedy stomach that brought about this last misfortune. Tomorrow I will do what I can to rectify my mistake and find you a steed of some sort to carry you on to the East."

  "Something that can fly?"

  "Sadly, no. A goat's the beast I had in mind." Before Hawkmoon could speak, Oladahn continued, "I have a certain influence in these mountains, being regarded as something of a curiosity. I am a cross-bred animal, you see, the result of a union between an adventurous youth of peculiar tastes - a sorcerer of sorts - and a Mountain Giantess. Alas, I am an orphan now, for Mother ate Father one hard winter, then Mother was eaten in turn by my Uncle Barkyos - the terror of these parts, largest and fiercest of the Mountain Giants.

  Since then, I have lived alone, with only my poor father's books for company. I am an outcast-too strange to be accepted either by my father's race or my mother's - living on my wits. If I were not so small, doubtless I should have been eaten, also, by Uncle Barkyos by now. . . ."

  Oladahn's face looked so comic in its melancholy that Hawkmoon could no longer bear him even a trace of malice.

  Besides, he was feeling tired from the heat of the fire and the large meal he had eaten. "Enough, friend Oladahn. Let us forget what cannot be rectified and sleep now. In the morning we must find a new mount for me to ride to Persia."

  And they slept, to awaken at dawn to see the fire still nickering under the carcass of the bird and a group of men, in fur and iron, breakfasting off it in some glee.

  "Brigands!" Oladahn cried, springing up in alarm. "I should not have left the fire!"

  "Where did you hide my sword?" Hawkmoon asked him, but already two of the men, smelling strongly of ancient animal fat, had swaggered toward them, drawing crude swords. Hawkmoon rose slowly to his feet, ready to defend himself as best he could, but Oladahn was already speaking.

  "I know you, Rekner," he said, pointing at the largest of the brigands. "And you should know that I am Oladahn of the Mountain Giants. Now that you have had your meal, be off, or my kin will come and slay you."

  Rekner grinned, unperturbed, picking his teeth with a dirty fingernail. "I have heard of you, indeed, littlest of giants, and I see nothing to fear, though I've been told that the villagers hereabouts avoid you. But villagers are not brave brigands, eh? Hush now, or we'll kill you slowly instead of quickly."

  Oladahn seemed to wilt, but he continued to stare hard at the brigand chieftain. Rekner laughed. "Now, what treasures have you got in that cave of yours?"

  Oladahn was swaying from side to side, as if in terror, crooning softly to himself. Hawkmoon looked from him to the brigand and back again, wondering if he could dash into the cave and find his sword in time. Now Oladahn's crooning grew louder, and Rekner paused, the smile freezing on his face and a glassy look coming into his eyes as Oladahn peered into them. Suddenly the little man flung up a hand, pointing and speaking in a cold voice. "Sleep, Rekner!"

  Rekner slumped to the ground, and his men cursed, starting forward, then stopping as Oladahn kept his hand raised.

  "Beware my power, scavengers, for Oladahn is the son of a sorcerer."

  The brigands hesitated, glancing at their prone leader.

  Hawkmoon looked in astonishment at the furry creature who held the warlike men at bay, then ducked into the cave and found his sword rescabbarded. He drew the belt that held it and the dagger about his waist and buckled it, pulling forth the blade and returning to Oladahn's side. The little man muttered from the corner of his mouth, "Bring your provisions. Their steeds are tethered at the bottom of the slope.

  We'll use them to escape, for Rekner will waken any instant, and I cannot hold them after that."

  Hawkmoon got the panniers, and he and Oladahn began to back down the slope, their feet scraping on the loose rock and scrub. Rekner was already stirring. He gave a groan and sat up. His men bent to help him to his feet. "Now," said Oladahn, and turned to run. Hawkmoon followed and there, to his surprise, were half a dozen goats the size of ponies, each animal with a sheepskin saddle. Oladahn swung himself up onto the nearest and held the bridle of another for Hawkmoon. The Duke of Koln hesitated for a moment, then smiled wryly and climbed into the saddle. Rekner and his brigands were racing down the hill toward them. With the flat of his sword, Hawkmoon slapped at the rumps of the remaining goats and they began to spring away.

  "Follow me!" cried Oladahn, urging his goat down the mountain toward a narrow trail. But Rekner's men had reached Hawkmoon, and his bright sword met their dull ones as they hacked savagely at him. He stabbed one man through the heart, struck another in the side, managed to slam the side of his blade down on Rekner's pate, then was riding the leaping goat in hot pursuit of the strange little man, the brigands roaring oaths and staggering after him.

  The goat moved in a series of leaps, jolting the bones of his body, but soon they had reached the trail and were riding down a tortuous path around the mountain, the cries of the brigands growing fainter and fainter. Oladahn turned with a grin of triumph. "We have our mounts, Lord Hawkmoon, eh? Easier than even I expected. A good omen! Follow me. I'll lead you to your road."

  Hawkmoon smiled in spite of himself. Oladahn's company was intoxicating, and his curiosity about the little man, coupled with his growing respect and gratitude for the manner in which he had saved their lives, made Hawkmoon forget almost completely that the furry kin of the Mountain Giants had been the initial cause of his new troubles.

  Oladahn insisted on riding with him for several days, all the way through the mountains, until they reached a wide yellow plain and Oladahn pointed, saying, "That is the way you must go."

  "I thank you," Hawkmoon said, staring now toward Asia.

  "It is a shame that we must part."

  "Aha!" grinned Oladahn, rubbing at the red fur on his face. "I'd agree with that sentiment. Come, I'll ride with you a way to keep you company on the plain." And with that he urged his goat forward again.

  Hawkmoon laughed, shrugged, and followed.

  Chapter Two - THE CARAVAN OF AGONOSVOS

  IT BEGAN to rain almost as soon as they reached the plain, and the goats, which had borne them so well through the mountains, were unused to the yielding earth and moved slowly. For a month they traveled, hunched in their cloaks, shivering from the damp that chilled them to their vitals, and Hawkmoon's head throbbed often. When the throbbing came, he would not speak to the solicitous Oladahn but would bury his head in his arms, his face pale and his teeth clenched, tormented eyes staring at nothing. He knew that back at Castle Brass the sentience of the Jewel was beginning to break the bonds the Count had wrought, and he despaired of seeing Yisselda again.

  Rain beat down, and a cold wind blustered, and through the sweeping curtain of water Hawkmoon saw vast stretches of fenland ahead of them, broken by clumps of gorse and black, shrunken trees. He had little idea of his bearings, for most of the time clouds obscured the sky. The only rough indication of direction was i
n the manner in which the shrubs grew in this part of the world, leaning almost invariably toward the south. He had not expected to meet such country so far to the east, and he gathered that its characteristics were the result of some event that had taken place during the Tragic Millennium.

  Hawkmoon brushed his damp hair from his eyes, feeling the hard touch of the Black Jewel imbedded in his forehead.

  He shivered, glancing at Oladahn's miserable face, then back through the rain. There was a dark outline in the distance that might indicate a forest of some kind where they would at least have some protection from the rain. The pointed hooves of the goats stumbled through the swampy grass. Hawkmoon's head began to tingle, and again he felt the gnawing sensation in his brain and a nausea in his chest. He gasped, pressing one forearm against his skull while Oladahn looked on in mute sympathy.

  At length they reached the forest of low-lying trees. They found the going even slower than it had been and avoided the ponds of dark water that had formed everywhere. The trunks and branches of the trees seemed malformed, twisting toward the ground rather than away from it. The bark was black or dark brown, and at this season there was no foliage. In spite of this, the forest seemed thick and hard to penetrate. At its edge water glinted, a shallow moat protecting the trees.

  Their mounts' hooves splashed through the muddy water as they entered the forest, bending low to avoid the curling branches. Even here the ground was swampy, and pools had formed at the bases of the trunks, but there was little shelter, after all, from the perpetually falling rain.