Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull

by Michael Moorcock

  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 purposes of their actions where the Runestaff is concerned.

  Now you must continue on the second part of your mission in Amarehk. You must journey north—you can go round the coast, for Bewchard, I am sure, will lend you a ship—and 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 me—do 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 yet—and you and your friends should be here. It will be sad for me, celebrating without your company—for 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 enemies—and 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. "No—but 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 scabbard that now held the Sword of the Dawn. "The Warrior 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 object—and 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 destiny—merely 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, Hawkmoon—and 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 myself 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," continued 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 Bewchard 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'Averc—for Europe. There we may use our rings to take us back to Castle Brass. I would see Yisselda 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. Something 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

  The Runestaff

  Book One

  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; the Barons of Granbretan carried the standard of their King Emperor Huon across the continent of Europe and made that continent their property; carried the banner to West and East to other continents to which they also laid claim. And it seemed that no force, either natural or supernatural, was strong enough to halt the insane and deadly tide. Indeed, none now resisted them at all. With chuckling pride and cold contempt they demanded whole nations as tribute and the tribute was paid.

  In all the subdued lands few hoped. Of those, fewer dared express hope—and among those few hardly a single soul possessed the courage to murmur the name symbolizing that hope.

  The name was Castle Brass.

  Those who spoke the name understood its implications, for Castle Brass was the only stronghold to remain unvanquished by the warlords of Granbretan, and Castle Brass housed heroes; men who had fought the Dark Empire, whose names were loathed and hated by the brooding Baron Meliadus, Grand Constable of the Order of the Wolf, Commander of the Army of Conquest,
for it was known that Baron Meliadus fought a private feud with those heroes, particularly the legendary Dorian Hawkmoon von Koln who was married to the woman Meliadus desired, Yisselda, daughter of Count Brass of Castle Brass.

  But Castle Brass had not defeated the armies of Granbretan, it had merely evaded them, disappearing by means of a strange, ancient crystal machine into another dimension of the Earth, where those heroes, Hawkmoon, Count Brass, Huillam D'Averc, Oladahn of the Bulgar Mountains and their handful of Kamargian men-at-arms, now sheltered, and most folk felt that the heroes of the Kamarg had deserted them forever. They did not blame them, but their hope waned fainter with every day that passed and the heroes did not return.

  In that other Kamarg, sundered from its original by mysterious dimension of time and space, Hawkmoon and the rest were faced with fresh problems, for it seemed that the sorcerer-scientists of the Dark Empire were close to discovering means either of breaking through into their dimension or of recalling them. The enigmatic Warrior in Jet and Gold had sent Hawkmoon and D'Averc on a quest to a strange new land to seek the legendary Sword of the Dawn, which would be of aid to them in their struggle, and which would in turn aid The Runestaff, which, the Warrior insisted, Hawkmoon, manifestation of the Champion Eternal, served. Having won the rosy sword, Hawkmoon was then informed he must travel by sea around the coast of Amarehk to the city of Dnark, where the services of the blade were required. But Hawkmoon demurred. He was anxious to

  return to the Kamarg and see his beautiful wife Yisselda again. In a ship supplied by Bewchard of Narleen, Hawkmoon set sail for Europe, against the dictates of the Warrior in Jet and Gold who had told him that his duty to The Runestaff, that mysterious artefact said to control all human destinies, was greater than his duty to his wife, friends and adopted homeland. With the foppish Huillam D'Averc by his side, Hawkmoon headed out to sea.

  Meanwhile in Granbretan Baron Meliadus fumed at what he considered his King-Emperor's foolishness in not allowing him to pursue his vendetta against Castle Brass. When Shenegar Trott, Count of Sussex, seemed to be favoured over him by a King-Emperor growing steadily more mistrustful of his un-stable conquistador, Meliadus became rebellious, pursuing his prey to the Wastes of Yel, losing them, and returning with redoubled hatred to Londra, there to scheme not only against the heroes of Castle Brass, but also against his immortal ruler, Huon, the King Emperor...

  —The High History of the Runestaff

  Chapter One - An Episode in King Huon's Throne Room

  THE VAST DOORS parted and Baron Meliadus, but lately returned from Yel, walked into the throne room of his King-Emperor, to report his failures and his discoveries.

  As Meliadus entered the room, whose roof seemed so tall as to be one with the heavens and whose walls were so distant as to seem to encompass an entire country, his way was blocked by a double line of guards. These guards, members of the King Emperor's own Order of the Mantis and wearing the great jewelled insect-masks belonging to that Order, seemed reluctant to let him pass through.

  Meliadus controlled himself with difficulty and waited while the ranks drew back to admit him.

  Then he strode on into the hall of blazing colour, whose galleries were hung with the gleaming banners of Granbretan's five hundred greatest families and whose walls were encrusted with a mosaic of precious gems depicting Granbretan's might and history, along an aisle made up on either side by a thousand mantis warriors, each statue-still, towards the Throne Globe more than a mile distant

  Half-way to the Globe, he abased himself in a somewhat peremptory fashion.

  The solid black sphere seemed to shudder momentar-ily as Baron Meliadus rose, then the black became shot through with veins of scarlet and white which slowly spread through the darker shade until it had vanished altogether. The mixture like milk and blood swirled and cleared to reveal a tiny foetus-like shape curled in the centre of the sphere. From this twisted figure peered eyes that were hard, black and sharp, containing an old—indeed, an immortal—intelligence. This was Huon, King Emperor of Granbretan and the Dark Empire, Grand Constable of the Order of the Mantis, wielder of absolute power over tens of millions of souls, the ruler who would live forever and in whose name Baron Meliadus had conquered the whole of Europe and beyond.

  The voice of a golden youth now issued from the Throne Globe (the golden youth to whom it had belonged had been dead a thousand years):

  "Ah, our impetuous Baron Meliadus..."

  Again Meliadus bowed and murmured. "Your servant. Prince of All."

  "And what have you to report to us, hasty lord?"

  "Success, Great Emperor. Proof of my suspicions..."

  "You have found the missing emissaries from Asiacommunista?"

  "I regret not, Noble Sire..."

  Baron Meliadus did not know that it had been in this disguise that Hawkmoon and D'Averc had penetrated the capital of the Dark Empire. Only Flana Mikosevaar, who had helped them escape, knew that.

  "Then why are you here, baron?"

  "I discovered that Hawkmoon, whom I insist is still the greatest threat to our security, has been visiting our island. I went to Yel and there found him and the traitor Huillam D'Averc, as well as the magician Mygan of Llandar. They know the secret of travelling through the dimensions." Baron Meliadus did not mention that they had escaped from him. "Before we could apprehend them they vanished before our eyes. Mighty Monarch, if they can come and go from our land at will, surely it is plain that we can never be safe until they are destroyed.

  I would suggest we begin immediately to direct all the efforts of our scientists—of Taragorm and Kalan in particular—to finding these renegades and finishing them.

  They threaten us from within..."

  "Baron Meliadus. What news of the emissaries from Asiacommunista?"

  "None, so far. Mighty King Emperor, but..."

  "A few guerillas, Baron Meliadus, this empire may contend with, but if our shores are threatened by a force as great, if not greater, than our own, by a force, more-over that is possessed of scientific secrets unknown to us, that we may not survive, you see ..." The golden voice spoke with acid patience.

  Meliadus frowned. "We have no proof that such an invasion is planned, Monarch of the World ..."

  "Agreed. Neither have we proof, Baron Meliadus, that Hawkmoon and his band of terrorists have the power to do us any great harm." Streaks of ice blue suddenly appeared in the Throne Globe's fluid.

  "Great King Emperor. Give me the time and the resources..."

  "We are an expanding empire, Baron Meliadus; We wish to expand still further. It would be pessimistic, would it not, to stand still? That is not our way. We are proud of our influence upon the Earth. We wish to ex-tend it. You seem uneager to carry out the principles of our ambition which is to spread a great, laughing terror to the corners of the world. You are becoming small-minded, we fear ..."

  "But by refusing to counter those subtle forces that might wreck our schemes, Prince of All, we could betray our destiny also!"

  "We resent dissension, Baron Meliadus. Your personal hatred of Hawkmoon and, we have heard, your desire for Yisselda of Brass, represent dissension. We have your self-interest at heart, baron, for if you continue in this course, we shall be obliged to elect another over you, to dismiss you from our service—aye, even to dismiss you from your Order..."

  Instinctively, Baron Meliadus's gauntleted hands leapt fearfully to his mask. To be unmasked! The greatest disgrace—the greatest horror of them all! For that was what the threat implied. To join the ranks of the lowest scum in Londra—the caste of the unmasked ones! Meliadus shuddered and could hardly bring himself to speak.

  At last he murmured. "I will reflect on your words, Emperor of the Earth..."

  "Do so, Baron Meliadus. We would not wish to see such a great conqueror destroyed by a few clouded thoughts. If you would regain all our favour, you will find for us the means by which the Asiacommunistan emissaries left."

  Baron Meliadus fell to his knees, his great
wolf-mask nodding, his arms outspread. Thus the conqueror of Europe abased himself before his Lord, but his brain flared with a dozen rebellious thoughts and he thanked the spirit of his Order that the mask hid his face so that his fury did not show.

  He backed away from the Throne Globe while the beady, sardonic eyes of the King Emperor regarded him.

  Huon's prehensile tongue darted out to touch a jewel floating near the shrunken head and the milky fluid swirled, flashed with rainbow colours, then gradually turned black once more.

  Meliadus wheeled and began the long march back to the gigantic doors, feeling that every eye behind the unmoving mantis masks watched him with malevolent humour.

  When he had passed through the doors, he turned to the left and strode through the corridors of the twisted palace, seeking the apartments of the Countess Flana Mikosevaar of Kanbery, widow of Asrovak Mikosevaar, the Muskovian renegade who had once headed the Vulture Legion. Countess Flana not only was now titular head of the Vulture Legion, but also cousin to the King Emperor—his only surviving kin.

  Chapter Two - Human Thoughts of The Countess Flana

  THE HERON MASK of spun gold lay on the lacquered table before her as she stared through the window, over the curling, crazy spires of the city of Londra, her pale, beautiful face full of sadness and confusion.

  As she moved, the rich silks and jewels of her gown caught the light from the red sun. She went to a closet and opened it. There were the strange costumes she had kept since those two visitors had left her apartments so many days before. The disguises that Hawkmoon and D'Averc had used when posing as princes from Asiacommunista. Now she wondered where they were—particularly D'Averc whom she knew loved her.

  Flana, Countess of Kanbery, had had a dozen husbands and more lovers, had disposed of them in one way or another as a woman might dispose of a useless pair of stockings. She had never experienced love, never had the emotion known to most others, even the rulers of Granbretan.