Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull

by Michael Moorcock

  "What do they look like?"

  "Barbaric—primitive—and yet so fierce! They are driving into our forces like a coals through cream!"

  "What? It cannot be. We have five thousand troops and they have five hundred. All the reports confirmed that number."

  "There are more than five hundred, my lord. Many more."

  "Have all the scouts lied, then? Or are we all going mad. These barbarian warriors, they must have come with Hawkmoon from Amarehk. What now? What now?

  Are our forces rallying?"

  "They are not, my lord."

  "What are they doing, then?"

  "They are falling back, my lord."

  "Retreating? Impossible!"

  "They appear to be falling back rapidly, my lord.

  Those that live."

  "What do you mean? How many remain of our five thousand?"

  "I would say about five hundred infantry, my lord, and a scattered hundred of cavalry."

  "Tell the pilot of my ornithopter to prepare his machine herald."

  "I will, my lord."

  "Is the pilot ready to fly, herald?"

  "He is, my lord."

  "And what of Hawkmoon and his band? What of the men in the silver helms?"

  "They are pursuing the remains of our force, my lord."

  "I have been deceived in some way, herald."

  "As you say, my lord. There are many dead. But now the barbarian warriors slaughter the infantry. Only the cavalry escape."

  "I cannot believe it. O, curse this blindness! I feel as if I dreamt"

  "I will lead you to the ornithopter, my lord."

  "Thank you, herald. No, pilot—to Londra. Hurry. I must consider fresh plans!"

  As the ornithopter beat its way up into the pale blue sky, Meliadus felt a great silver flash pass across his eyes and he blinked, looking down. And he could see. He could see the six flashing helmets the herald had mentioned, he could see the slaughtered legions he had known would destroy Hawkmoon's force, he saw the remains of his cavalry scurrying wildly for their lives. And he heard distant laughter he recognised as belonging to his most hated enemy.

  He shook his fist. "Hawkmoon! Hawkmoon!"

  Silver flashed as a helmet turned to look upward.

  "No matter what tricks you use, Hawkmoon, you will perish by the night. I know you will. I know!"

  He looked again, seething as Hawkmoon laughed on.

  He looked for the barbarians who had routed his soldiers. They had vanished.

  It was a nightmare, he thought. Or had the herald been in league with Hawkmoon? Or were Hawkmoon's barbarians invisible to his eyes?

  Meliadus rubbed at his face. Perhaps the blindness, so recently left him, was still troubling him in some ob-scure form. Perhaps the barbarians were on another part of the field.

  But no, there were no barbarians.

  "Hurry, pilot," he called through the sound of the metallic wings flapping at the air. "Hurry—we must return to Londra as fast as we can!"

  Meliadus began to think that Hawkmoon's defeat was not going to be as easy as he had guessed. But then he remembered Kalan and the Machine of the Black Jewel, and he smiled.

  Chapter Fourteen - The Power Returns

  SLIGHTLY OVERAWED BY a victory in which they had lost only twelve killed and twenty slightly wounded, the six removed their mirror helms and stared after the retreating horsemen.

  "They were not expecting the Legion of the Dawn!"

  Count Brass smiled. "Unprepared, they were startled and could hardly resist. But they will be better prepared by the time we reach Londra."

  "Aye," Hawkmoon said, "and Meliadus will put a good many more warriors in the field next time." He fingered the Red Amulet about his throat and glanced at Yisselda who was shaking out her blonde hair.

  "You fought well, my lord," she said. "You fought like a hundred men."

  "That is because this amulet gives me the strength of fifty men and your love gives me the strength of another fifty," he smiled.

  She laughed lightly. "You never flattered me so during our courtship."

  "Perhaps it is because I have come to love you even more than before," he replied.

  D'Averc cleared his throat. "We'd best camp a mile or two on, away from all this death."

  "I'll tend to the wounded," Bowgentle said and turned his horse back to where the Kamargian cavalry were grouped, squatting beside their horses and talking among themselves.

  "You did well, lads," Count Brass called back. "It is like the old days, eh? When we fought across Europe! Now we fight to save Europe."

  Hawkmoon started to speak and then gave a terrible shriek. The helmet fell from his grasp and he pressed both hands to his head, his eyes rolling in pain and horror. He swayed in his shadow and would have fallen had not Oladahn caught him.

  "What is it, Duke Dorian?" Oladahn asked in alarm.

  "Why do you cry, my love?" Yisselda dismounted swiftly, helping Oladahn support him.

  Through clenched teeth and pale lips Hawkmoon managed to utter a few words. "The jewel . . . The Black Jewel—it is gnawing at my brain again I The power has returned I" He swayed and fell into their arms, his limbs swinging loosely and his face a terrible white. As his hands dropped from his head they saw he spoke truth. The Black Jewel was crawling with life. It had regained its malevolent lustre.

  "Oladahn, is he dead?" Yisselda cried in panic.

  The little man shook his head. "No—he lives. But for how long, I cannot tell. Bowgentle! Sir Bowgentle!

  Come quickly."

  Bowgentle hurried up and took Hawkmoon in his arms. This was not the first time he had seen the Duke of Koln thus. He shook his head. "I can try to work a temporary remedy, but I have not the materials that I had at Castle Brass."

  In panic, Yisselda and Oladahn, and later Count Brass and D'Averc watched Bowgentle work. And at last Hawkmoon stirred, opening his eyes.

  "The jewel," he said. "I dreamt it was eating my brain again..."

  "So it will if we cannot find a way of blocking it soon," murmured Bowgentle. "The power has gone for the moment, but we do not know when it will return again and in what force."

  Hawkmoon hauled himself to his feet. He was pale and could hardly stand. "We must press on, then—to Londra while there is time. If there is time."

  "Aye, if there is time."

  Chapter Fifteen - The Gates of Londra

  THE TROOPS WERE massed outside the gates of Londra as the six riders mounted the crest of the hill at the head of their cavalry.

  Hawkmoon, ill with pain, fingered the Red Amulet.

  This alone was keeping him alive, helping him fight the power of the Black Jewel. Somewhere in the city Kalan was operating the machine that fed life to the jewel. To reach Kalan he had to take the city, had to beat the multitude of warriors that, with Meliadus at their had, now awaited them.

  Hawkmoon did not hesitate. He knew he could not hesitate, for every second of his life was precious. He drew the rosy Sword of the Dawn and gave the order to charge.

  Gradually the Kamargian cavalry topped the hill and began to thunder down on a force many times their number.

  Flame lances spat from the Granbretanian ranks and were answered by the fire of the Kamargians. Hawkmoon judged the moment right and flung his swordarm skyward. "The Legion of the Dawn! I summon the Legion of the Dawn!" and then he groaned as the pain filled his skull and he felt the heat of the jewel in his forehead.

  Yisselda beside him had time to cry out, "Are you all right, my love?" but he could not give an answer.

  And then they were in the thick of the battle.

  Hawkmoon's eyes were so glazed with pain he could hardly see the enemy, could not tell at first if the Legion of the Dawn had materialised. But there they were now, their rosy auras lighting the sky. He felt the power of the Red Amulet fill him as it fought the power of the Black Jewel and he felt his strength gradually returning.

  But how long would it last?

  Now he was in
the middle of a mass of fear-crazed horses, striking about him at Vulture helmeted warriors who bore long-handled maces with heads like the stretched claws of hunting birds. He blocked a blow and struck back, his great sword cutting through the warrior's armour and into his chest. He swung in the saddle to take another foe in the neck, ducked a whistling mace and stabbed its owner in the groin.

  The fight was noisy and the fighting hot and hysteri-cal. The air stank of fear and Hawkmoon had soon decided that this was the worst battle he had ever fought for, in their shock at the appearance of the Legion of the Dawn, the Dark Empire warriors had lost their nerve and were fighting wildly, had broken their ranks, had abandoned their commanders.

  Hawkmoon knew that it was to be a messy fight and one in which there would be few left alive at the end.

  He began to suspect that he would not see the finish, for the pain in his skull was growing stronger again.

  Oladahn died unseen by his comrades, lonely and without dignity, hacked to pieces by a dozen war axes wielded by Pig infantry.

  But Count Brass died in this manner:

  He encountered three barons. Adaz Promp, Mygel Hoist and Saka Gerden (the latter of the Order of the Bull). They recognised him not by his helm, which was plain save for its crest, but by his body and his armour of brass. And they rode at him in a pack—Hound, Goat and Bull—with their swords raised to chop him down.

  But Count Brass, looking up from the body of his last opponent (who had slain his steed and thus left the Count on foot), saw the three barons riding down on him and took his broadsword in both hands and, as their horses reached him he swung the sword, cutting the legs of the horses from under them so that each baron was flung forward over his horse's head and landed in the churned mud of the battlefield, whereupon Count Brass dispatched Adaz Promo in a very undignified position in the rear, lopped off the head of Mygel Hoist (whom he had almost slain once before) as the Goat Baron begged to be spared, and by this time had only the Bull, Saka Gerden, to deal with. Baron Saka had time to get to his feet and assume a decent fighting stance though he shook his head several times as Count Brass's mirror mask blinded him. Upon seeing this, Count Brass ripped off his silver helm and threw it to one side, displaying his bristling red hair and moustache in all its pride and battle-anger. "I took two in an un-fair manner," growled the Count, "so it is only fair to give you the chance to slay me.".

  Saka Gerden charged like the fierce Bull of his Order and Count Brass sidestepped him, bringing his sword around in a swing to split Saka Gerden's helm down the middle and split Saka Gerden's skull, also. As the Baron fell, the Count smiled and a spear was driven completely through his neck by a Goat rider. Even then Count Brass turned, wrenching the spear from his assailant's grasp, and flung his broadsword to catch the Goat in the throat, thus giving as good as he had received. That was how Count Brass died.

  Orland Fank saw it happen. He had left the party before the battle but had joined them later and had done considerable damage with his battle-axe. He saw how Count Brass died. It was at about the moment when the Dark Empire forces, lacking three of their leaders, began to regroup closer to the gates and were only stopped from retreating behind the gates by Baron Meliadus who was most fearsome in his black armour, his black Wolf helm and his great black broadsword.

  But then even Baron Meliadus was pressed back as Hawkmoon, Yisselda, D'Averc, Bowgentle and Orland Fank led their few surviving Kamargians and the strange, dirge-calling Legion of the Dawn, against the beasts of Granbretan.

  There was no time to close the gates before the heroes of the Kamarg had entered the city and Baron Meliadus realised he had always estimated Hawkmoon's power correctly and only now, over-confident, had under-estimated it. There was nothing for it but to bring up as many reinforcements as possible and get Kalan to increase the power of the Black Jewel.

  Then his heart lifted. He saw Hawkmoon sway in his saddle, his hands going to the silver helm, saw the strange man in the bonnet and the chequered breeks, grasp him and then reach behind him for the roll of cloth attached to his saddle.

  Fank murmured to Hawkmoon. "Try to listen, man, will you? It is time to use the Runestaff. Time to bring out our standard. Do it now, Hawkmoon, or you'll live less than a minute morel"

  Hawkmoon felt the power gnawing at his brain like a rat in a cage, but he grasped the Runestaff as Fank handed it to him, raised it high in his left hand and saw the waves and rays begin to fill the air around him.

  Fank yelled: "The Runestaff I The Runestaff! We fight for the Runestaff!" And Fank laughed and laughed as the Granbretanians fell back in fear, so demoralised now in spite of their numbers, that Hawkmoon already felt the victor.

  But Baron Meliadus was not prepared to be the conquered. He screamed at his men. "That is nothing! It is only an object! It cannot harm you! You fools—take them."

  Then the heroes of the Kamarg rode forward with Hawkmoon swaying in his saddle, managing to bear the Runestaff aloft, through the gates of Londra and into the city where still there were a million men to stop them.

  Now, as if in a dream, Hawkmoon led his supernatural legion against the enemy, the Sword of the Dawn in one hand and the Runestaff in the other, guiding his horse with his knees.

  The press was so solid, as Pig and Goat infantry tried to tear them from their saddles, they could hardly move at all. Hawkmoon saw one of the mirror-helmed figures fighting valiantly as a dozen beasts dragged it from its horse and he feared it was Yisselda. Energy flooded into him and he turned, trying to reach his comrade, but another mirror-helmed horseman was already there, hacking about it, and he realised it had not been Yisselda in peril but Bowgentle and that Yisselda had come to his rescue.

  To no avail. Bowgentle disappeared and the weapons of the beasts, of the Coats and the Pigs and the Hounds, rose and fell above his body until eventually one held aloft a bloodied silver helm—held it aloft only for a moment, for then Yisselda's slim sword had sliced off the wrist so that blood fountained from the arm.

  Another searing charge of pain. Kalan was increasing the power. Hawkmoon gasped and his vision dimmed, but he managed to protect himself from the weapons whistling around him, managed to hold up the Runestaff still.

  As his vision cleared for the moment, he saw that D'Averc was leaping his horse through the Granbretanians, his sword whirling in all directions as he cut a road through them. Then Hawkmoon realised where D'Averc was going. To the palace—to reach the woman he loved, Queen Flana.

  And this is how D'Averc died:

  D'Averc managed somehow to reach the palace which was still in the half-ruined condition it had been in after Meliadus had taken it, so he was able to ride through the breach in the wall and dismount at the outer steps to run at the guards on the door. They had flame lances.

  He had only a sword. He flung himself flat as the flames shrieked past his head, rolled over to take cover in a ditch cut by the green fluid from one of Kalan's bubbles and found a flame lance there which he poked over the edge and used to cut down all the guards before they could know what had happened.

  D'Averc sprang up. He began to run through the tall corridors, his boots echoing loudly. He ran until at last he came to the doors of the Throne Room where a score of guards saw him and turned their weapons upon him, but he used his own flame lance again and cut them down, being singed only slightly in his right shoulder.

  He pushed open the doors a crack and looked into the Throne Room. A mile away was the dais, but he could not see if Flana sat on it. Otherwise the hall was empty.

  D'Averc began to run towards the distant throne.

  And he shouted her name as he ran. "Flana! Flana!"

  Flana had been day-dreaming on her throne and looked up to see the tiny figure advancing. She heard her name taken up by a thousand echoes in the huge hall. "Flana! Flana! Flana!"

  And she recognised the voice but thought that she had probably not yet woken up.

  The figure came closer and it had a helmet that shone like poli
shed silver, like a mirror, But the body—was the body not recognisable?

  "Huillam?" she murmured uncertainly. "Huillam D'Averc."

  "Flana!" The figure wrenched off its mask and flung it from him so that it clattered across the great marble floor. "Flana!"

  "Huillam!" She stood up and began to descend the steps towards him.

  He opened his arms, smiling with joy.

  But they never touched in life again, for a flame beam descended like a stroke of lightning from a gallery high above and burned off his face so that he screamed in ag-ony and fell to his knees; burned into his back so that he slumped forward and died at her feet while she sobbed great, strangled sobs that shook her body.

  And a voice of a guard from the gallery called in great self-approval. "You are safe now, madam."

  Chapter Sixteen - The Final Fight

  THE DARK EMPIRE forces were still swarming from every rathole in their maze city and Hawkmoon noted with despair that the Legion of the Dawn was getting thinner. Now when a warrior was slain another did not always take his place. Around him the air was full of the bitter-sweet scent of the Runestaff and strange patterns in the air.

  Then, as Hawkmoon saw Meliadus, a wave of pain gnawed again at his brain and he fell from his horse.

  Meliadus dismounted from his black charger and walked slowly towards Hawkmoon. The Runestaff had fallen from his hand and the Sword of the Dawn was only loosely held.

  Hawkmoon stirred, groaning. Around him the battle still raged, but it did not seem to be anything to do with him. He felt the energy leaving him, felt the pain increasing, opened his eyes and saw Meliadus ap-proaching, the helm snarling as if in triumph. Hawkmoon's throat was dry and he tried to move, tried to reach the Runestaff which lay on the cobbles of the street.

  Meliadus said softly. "Ah, Hawkmoon, at last And you are in pain, I see. You are weak, I see. My only disappointment is that you will not live to witness your ultimate defeat and Yisselda in my power." Meliadus spoke almost with pity, with concern. "Can you not rise, Hawkmoon? Is the jewel eating your brain behind that silver mask of yours? Shall I let it finish you, or shall I give myself the pleasure? Can you answer, Hawkmoon?