The City in the Autumn Stars

by Michael Moorcock

  ‘Aye, release him,’ cried one of the cowled fraternity.

  ‘Charlatan!’ shouted St Odhran. ‘Villain! ’Tis you, Sir, who’s the heretic! I am come here to reveal the truth to you all! This body is sacred. If you slay it, you release me in all my vengeful glory! Hell shall visit Earth in all its howling horror! You rob yourselves of privilege and bring upon yourselves my father’s wrath!’

  The little Baron (von Bresnvorts is his name) attempted to hold them back, squeaking at them, most undignified. ‘He is not the Beast! I assure you, he is not the Beast!’

  ‘I am the Beast! I am the Lord of the City of the World! I am the Avenger. I am the Fire that shall lay waste all that Man treasures! I am the Sword which shall execute my fated task. I am the Scythe –’

  ‘You are an imposter!’ shrieked the Baron. ‘You deceived my aunt and now you seek to deceive my followers. You shall be doubly punished!’

  ‘No, Sir – ’tis you who’ll be doomed!’ I broke in now, with the voice one used to rally frightened troops. ‘Hear me, people. This is Thog-Mogoch, I swear upon my soul. He allowed himself to be brought here so that he might address you. Kill him and you shall forever be damned, for he is the one destined to be the Anti-Christ!’ I babbled such nonsense, seeing no harm in taking our claims a step or two further.

  ‘You lie, Sir!’ said the furious miniature Baron. ‘This is the Chevalier St Odhran, charlatan and trickster. A thief who is condemned to death in England, exiled from Berlin, wanted as an outlaw in Vienna. And you, Sir, are the son of the Graf von Bek, who renounced your title and inheritance to follow the king-slayers of France!’

  At this, a thin man stepped into the firelight. He was tall, gaunt, his face more nearly a fleshless skull than any I had ever seen. He was dressed in black, like a Quaker, and had a Quaker’s wide-brimmed hat upon his grey locks. He had no age, this man, but he had burning, tormented eyes which had witnessed everything, from the world’s creation, perhaps to its end. The white lace at collar and wrist, at knee and ankle, was emphasis for his bloodless face. ‘You cannot be the Anti-Christ,’ he said reasonably to St Odhran, ‘for the Anti-Christ is already chosen and shall soon begin to reign.’

  I was inclined to believe that sonorous skeleton. He had more authority than any I had heard in all my life before. His voice was as old as Time and though empty of all feeling it was weighted with a terrible wisdom. He wore no masquerader’s weeds. His clothes were his own, severe and familiar to him; he and they were of a single piece. And all the while I regarded him there was some kind of recognition stirring in me, as if he was a creature of my deepest dreams taking flesh before my eyes. ‘You claim knowledge of us, sir,’ I said. ‘But we do not know you.’

  ‘Ah, I know you, von Bek. I know all your ancestors. First there was Ulrich, the cause of my great distress more than a hundred years past. I knew him very well. Surely your family’s archives take note of me.’

  The Baron was defeated and lost. This man was his superior and was acknowledged as such by all present.

  ‘You must tell me a name, Sir, before I can answer that. Who are you, Sir?’

  ‘I was once what St Odhran claims to be. Do your histories record me?’ He seemed almost anxious on that matter. ‘I am Klosterheim, who turned against his powerful master. Do they speak of Klosterheim, who almost held the Grail? That is who I am, Sir. Do they recall me as evil personified, von Bek? Do they make a story of me to frighten children around the fireside? I am Klosterheim and now I’m opposed to God and Satan both. Now I serve Mankind. I am known as the ambassador of the stolen future and the unremembered past. Did the tales of Klosterheim chill your boyhood nights, von Bek?’ With every question he took another pace towards me. St Odhran, pale and puzzled, looked from his face to mine, from mine to his.

  I was not facetious when I replied, for my legs were weak and I was sweating. ‘I have never heard of you, Sir. Read nothing of a Klosterheim.’

  ‘Is there no book which calls me Satan’s steward? Nothing at all in the libraries of Bek?’

  ‘Nothing, Sir, that I know.’

  His eyes grew almost sad. ‘So my name is gone, too, from that world,’ he said. ‘Too much is fading.’ He looked at me with a momentary expression of agony. ‘I’ve much hatred for the name of von Bek. It cannot be satisfied by killing you. Moreover our destinies are too tangled, even now. What’s more, I lack courage for it. Do you know what damnation can be, Sir? It can be a state of permanent caution, making one chronically unable to risk anything, even a risk which might save one from extinction. Not that extinction would be unwelcome, I suppose.’ He spread his white hands before him and stared at them. ‘I hate you, von Bek.’ Musingly, and to my utter horror, he reached to stroke my cheek with his dead, thin fingers. ‘Yet I suppose I must love you, too. At least you have meaning for me. I wonder now if your ancestor and I were not unconscious allies. Part of the same design. Would you be my ally, von Bek? Would you love me?’

  I turned my head. ‘Sir,’ said I through clenched teeth, ‘you terrify me and I dislike the sensation. What do you want of me?’

  He seemed puzzled and dropped his hand. ‘Nothing, as yet. Von Bresnvorts is a dolt. I lodge in these catacombs. I have lived in them for more than fifty years. Do you believe me?’

  ‘You’re mighty well-preserved, Sir. The air down here must be conducive to Immortality.’

  ‘It is.’ He answered without humour, choosing his next words with slow care. ‘The Graf Ulrich von Bek robbed me of my birthright. He accepted a commission in Lucifer’s service.’

  It came to me that this poor creature was mad. ‘Sir, I’ve heard nothing of any of this.’

  He was disbelieving. ‘Nor of the Grail which Ulrich brought to Satan?’

  ‘I beg you, Herr Klosterheim, to let us go. We offer you no harm.’

  ‘I serve Mankind,’ he said. ‘There’ll be no wanton murder because a little popinjay of a Baron feels out of sorts. He has misused his power.’ Klosterheim’s voice was a frozen whisper. ‘I serve Mankind now,’ he said again. ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘Sir, I believe,’ said I, humouring him any way he wished. ‘But as for the rest, concerning my ancestor…’

  ‘I regret I did not see him die. Do you know, young man, how von Bek’s soul sought its reward?’

  Once more I was urgently sincere. ‘I know nothing of any of that. My ancestor died a natural death I believe.’

  He nodded slowly. Klosterheim was mad, but in a far grander and more impressive way than anyone else in those vaults. ‘Will you dine with me?’ he whispered, then, without waiting for my answer, he turned and glared at the others. ‘Bring a key, you vermin. My master tolerates stupidity only in the humble. You are too proud, all of you. Kneel – every one save he who has the key!’ And they fell at once to the rocky floor, as though a single creature. Thus Klosterheim demonstrated his power to me, while a female in a white robe which split to show scabrous, naked flesh, turned open first one padlock, then the next, and a knife parted our bonds. ‘Well, von Bek? Will you dine?’ Did I imagine a hint of some terrible yearning? Did he trick me towards my death or some worse enslavement?

  ‘What of my friend?’ I asked. ‘What of St Odhran?’

  ‘He can go free. At once.’ He raised his voice to address his kneeling servants. ‘See that the Chevalier is taken back to his lodgings.’ He put a cold hand on my arm. ‘Dine with me before you leave.’

  I was devilish afraid of the man, yet I was curious, I know not why, and I almost felt sympathy for him. I hesitated. ‘Sir, I must rest tonight, for I have a duel to fight at dawn…’

  He turned away with such a hopeless sigh I found my mouth moving before my brain. ‘Very well, Herr Klosterheim. I accept your invitation.’

  ‘I am obliged.’ He strode to where the red robe made obeisance. He lifted up the trembling chin with the sharp toe of his boot. ‘You shall never act again without my express instructions. You are vain and you are foolish. You do not deserve the p
ower I allow you. One more transgression, Sir, and I shall take you –’ he points with his thumb – ‘down there.’

  Von Bresnvorts attempted to beg forgiveness but he was gagging on his own bile.

  Klosterheim dropped the chin. ‘Farewell, Monsieur le Chevalier. Be assured, the Ritter von Bek shall follow in due course.’

  St Odhran made to resist this plan, but I raised my hand to show that I was satisfied of my safety. With a murmured farewell I followed Klosterheim past the Goat-head screen and into a narrow passage illuminated by brands giving off unusual, silvery light.

  ‘Those men and women wait the coming of the Anti-Christ,’ said Klosterheim without looking back. ‘They know the Birth, the Place, the Time. They believe they will be chosen for positions of power when the Anti-Christ’s rule begins. They’re a large and common herd. Each carries the mark of a Pagan godling branded upon its rump and believes it’s thus especially favoured. They’re of use to the Anti-Christ, I suppose, but they are ignorant and poor company. No more than field beasts, do you see?’ His confidences were unwelcome to me.

  We turned down a short flight of steps and into a large stone chamber, lit by more of the silvery flambeaux. Here was a Spartan room furnished with desk, two chairs, a table and a few old volumes and parchments, together with a steel Globe. A chest of drawers stood against one wall, near a truckle bed. There was no heat. Klosterheim crossed to the chest and from it removed a dish containing some white bread and two good-sized cheeses. On the dish he placed a knife. He poured water into two glass goblets and his meal was ready. As he drew the chairs to the table he removed his hat, gesturing for me to sit.

  He looked curiously at my face, pushing cheese and bread towards me in an awkward movement. He seemed to think me an animal whose behaviour he could not fathom. I cut a piece of cheese, took a goblet of water, and waited until he had served his own miserly portion. He was looking beyond me as he chewed. His eyes appeared to follow the movements of invisible armies and I was tempted to glance over my shoulder in case I should see what he saw. As he watched this illusory panorama he said to me: ‘Some hundred and fifty years ago, you and I sought the same thing.’

  I cleared my mouth. ‘Not I, Sir.’

  It was as if I split unnecessary hairs. ‘Your ancestor, then. The same blood. Same name. We sought the Holy Grail. Are you aware the Anti-Christ awaits only possession of the Grail before beginning to rule?’

  The man was crazier than I had originally suspected! ‘No, Sir,’ said I. ‘I thought the Anti-Christ a faded fashion.’

  ‘The Grail was once given into the hands of my master, as He then was, by your ancestor. Thus was I condemned to this existence. It came, the Grail, from the Forest at the Edge of Heaven. In the Middle Marches. However, as you must know, the geography of the Mittelmarch is ever unstable. Now the Forest can no longer be found. My master sought to placate God and offer the Grail to Mankind as the sign of His good faith. But the Grail is – it is itself. It vanished, once the gesture was made by the master. It is lost to us. But you could find it again, von Bek.’

  I did not intend to deny anything or make any gesture which might anger that madman. I let silence be my agreement. ‘You think the Grail’s still in the Mittelmarch, Herr Klosterheim? Surely that’s a place of Damned Souls, not Holy Cups?’

  Klosterheim frowned. ‘So it was. But now, because of the truce between God and Satan, there are no damned souls. We live in an age, Sir, where sin has no consequence. Do you find that heartening news, you who sought to create Paradise in Paris?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Well, we’re agreed on that.’ He cut carefully at his morsel of cheese but did not eat it.

  ‘So you serve the Anti-Christ, eh, Herr Klosterheim? Thus I must take it that Lucifer’s your master still.’

  ‘I did not say so, Sir. The Anti-Christ is neither God nor Satan. The Anti-Christ would rule the territory they’ve renounced. As would I. Our interests are therefore the same. Is there a record in your family concerning the Grail’s present location?’

  ‘I have some vague idea of that, aye.’ I wished to learn more and so did not want him to think me ignorant or inclined to contradict his fantasies.

  ‘Vague? It is common knowledge in Occult circles that the chief purpose of your aerial expedition is to retrieve the Grail!’

  I was greatly surprised to be told so certainly of my plans. Yet again I held my tongue. ‘How did they guess?’ I asked.

  ‘Your name, Sir, of course!’

  ‘Is it so famous?’

  ‘The family legend. Those who concern themselves with things mystical and supernatural say you also possess the Paracelsian sword.’

  ‘Indeed, Sir?’

  ‘Whoever had possession of those two objects of power, both the Cup and the Blade, would rule Earth and challenge the authority of Heaven!’ Klosterheim pushed away his goblet. ‘My hatred for you is profound, von Bek, though you offer me no direct harm. But you exist because my enemy Ulrich von Bek succeeded over me.’ He looked beyond my shoulder again. I shivered and refused to follow his cold glare. ‘But perhaps you’re not so casually acquainted with a hatred as constant and intense as mine? Eh, Sir?’

  ‘I think not, Sir.’

  He frowned, returning his gaze to the table. He spoke almost to himself. ‘I am divorced from so much.’ He drew a deeper breath and looked at me directly again. ‘Well, Sir?’

  ‘Well what, Sir?’ I did not know what he expected of me.

  ‘Will you join the quest, Sir? Or rather will you allow me to accompany you on your own expedition?’

  ‘And have you kill me at the end?’ I would not otherwise dissuade him from his misunderstanding. We could lose nothing by it, I reasoned. It seemed everyone but myself and St Odhran had absolute faith in the reality of our fraud.

  Klosterheim was astonished. ‘Why kill you, Sir?’

  ‘Your hatred, Sir. The hatred you recently mentioned.’

  He shrugged, close to amusement (or whatever resembled the emotion in his cold, miserable heart). ‘What use would be served by killing you? Death is nothing. That which follows death is of some importance, however. Do you take me for a petty revenger?’ He spoke distantly, his voice fading like ice turning to vapour. Again his eyes followed invisible dramas. ‘Well, Sir, will you make a bargain with Klosterheim? I’ll guide you through the Mittelmarch and can rally aid of several kinds. Then we take an equal share of all that’s gained…’

  ‘I’m a little unsure of what you’re offering me, Sir.’

  ‘Wisdom. Guidance. You have not journeyed there before, I know. All manner of intelligence. And, of course, ultimately true power. Greater power than any before. A territory upon our Earth wherein you may work any experiment you wish. Your disappointments in France could be rectified, if that was what you still dreamed of.’

  ‘It’s an attractive prospect, Sir,’ said I, becoming somewhat light-hearted as the fantasy grew out of all sane proportions. ‘But I fear I lack the other object of power mentioned. What’s this sword?’

  ‘The Sword of Paracelsus? I respect your discretion.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s safest wherever you keep it now. The great danger will be in the subsequent struggle and that could as easily be fought in this Realm.’

  I gave up any attempt to follow his reasoning. ‘You know a deal of secrets, Herr Klosterheim.’

  He was almost apologetic. ‘I am no longer omniscient.’ His eyes seemed to look back at a time when he had command of millions. He began to speak of a life which perhaps he had dreamed, when he was Hell’s captain and led an army against Satan Himself: a great rebellion. An attempt to achieve a further revolution. Now he was condemned, he said, to perpetual exile and eternal doubt. He, like Lucifer before him, had failed and been cast out. But his punishment had never properly been revealed to him. He had devoted himself to what he termed ‘the Triumph of Man’ and waited for the day when he might again challenge both God and Lucifer.

  The man’s ravings
were so grandiose and his tone so matter-of-fact that I could do nothing but listen in silence. The alliance he proposed would (had I believed in such things) commit my soul to immediate damnation. He was mighty convincing, however, for a madman. I agreed with whatever seemed politic and set my lips closed on anything which might alarm him. At length he subsided. ‘I have kept you late, Sir. But the meeting has proved rewarding to me. I’ll guide you to the surface.’

  He led me back through the catacombs to the outer world, still speaking somewhat repetitiously, in the manner of a man who has received a great blow to his spirits, in the death, for instance, of some beloved relative. His voice soon blended with the other noises in the tunnels. Then he stood with me in a narrow doorway and looked in apparent bemusement at the white dawn sky. I yawned.

  ‘You’re tired, Sir?’ said he.

  ‘A little, Sir.’

  He nodded his head slowly, his brow slightly furrowed, as if he understood intellectually but had no memory of a time when he himself needed sleep. ‘I’ll send a message when I hear your ship is ready,’ he said. Then, with the air of a wondering child, he pointed at a tiny swirl of snow which blew from a nearby roof. He held out his finger and with an introspective narrowing of his eyes waited until a flake settled at last on the tip. He sighed, but his breath did not materialise as mine did. I first thought he intended to make some remark; then I realised he merely wanted me to look at what seemed strange to him: the snowflake.

  ‘It is Winter,’ he said dreamily, ‘of course.’ But the snowflake did not melt.

  Coatless and shivering, I bid him farewell. I ran through the streets until at last I found the Mladota Bridge. I looked for Montsorbier down on the old Wool Quay. He was not there. It was only an hour past sunrise and it was conventional for one adversary to await another for at least that long.

  The paving stones of the Wool Quay had a light covering of snow. No-one had been there since the previous night. Puzzled, I ran on until I was at last banging gratefully upon the tradesman’s door of The Martyred Priest.