The City in the Autumn Stars

by Michael Moorcock

  ‘You’d be wise, Sir, to follow his instructions, Sir,’ said I to our host. ‘Klosterheim’s killed just lately and you know what rats become when the blood’s in their saliva. They like to strike again.’

  ‘If, von Bek, we’re to be allies,’ von Bresnvorts gestured with his own heavy handpiece, ‘I’ll thank you to be less insulting.’

  Klosterheim did not care. He quivered. He had a greed for the Grail beyond anyone’s.

  I had knocked Klosterheim with my shoulder and was diving for von Bresnvorts’ barker in the moment while Lucifer’s ex-captain was still between the gun and the Irishman! Grabbing it from his soft hand, I brought the butt down heavily on von Bresnvorts’ neck and then his nose. He screamed and nursed his face. Klosterheim foolishly turned the dragoon pistol at me, rather than keeping it on O’Dowd – and the Check was over. There was movement from one side of the great taproom to the other. The O’Dowd ran for the gallery. His men barred the doors and slammed shutters tight against windows. Libussa was now atop the table, smacking her pot hard on Klosterheim’s skull, and the pistol went off in my hand with a deafening bang! The militiaman was flung back across the tables, a great hole blossoming in his chest. He screamed.

  As if to answer that scream there was suddenly a monstrous heavy thump against the whole outside wall of the tavern. Another. Everything shook. And another – as if a cannonade were loosed against us, or gunpowder exploded by the keg-full. Thump! A pistol in one huge red hand and an old-fashioned spontoon in the other, O’Dowd went to peer through the window. Libussa had Klosterheim’s sword. His pistol was on the floor.

  ‘May we assume, Sir,’ said the O’Dowd in some exasperation to me, ‘that both you gentlemen are with us, and that the other three represent our enemies outside?’

  ‘You may, Sir.’

  The dying militiaman screamed on. ‘Save me, master! Save me!’ It was unclear whom he called for.

  Von Bresnvorts, white with anger, resembled an ancient, petulant schoolboy. Klosterheim, half dazed, sat down suddenly upon the table, Libussa still above him. Clutching his head he brought his eyes up to look at her.

  Weapons appeared from trunks, hidden panels, under floors. The whole place, it was now clear, was a bristling arsenal. The hard-faced pickaroons took familiar positions here and there about the tavern. O’Dowd himself continued to peer out, a pistol in his right hand, the spontoon under his arm. ‘How many d’ye think?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ I told him. ‘Maybe fifty. More. They’ll have been gathering recruits for some while, I’ll be bound. It’s in the nature of such creatures.’

  ‘What creatures, Sir?’

  ‘You described them yourself, Sir. Vermin, Sir. Devil worshippers of the lowest kind. Cruel murderers, every one. Blood ritual and torture’s their sport.’

  ‘I take your meaning, Sir.’ The Red O’Dowd wiped a finger almost delicately across his lips, as if to clean them. ‘That sort’s always come to Amalorm. Yet they never learn. ’Tis – though ye’d not think it – the last place they should be.’ He called instructions to his men. The tavern became a fortress within moments. He himself was freshly animated. I suspected his vocation was more soldier than innkeeper, though he might have wished it otherwise. He was pretty cheerful as he positioned his men here and there, sending some to the upper floors. Most lights were dimmed. While Libussa presented a newly borrowed pistol at Klosterheim and von Bresnvorts, I joined the O’Dowd at the window.

  There were figures scuttling everywhere across the square. The shops were shuttered. ‘I’ve more men there,’ said the O’Dowd. ‘We’ll catch ’em in a crossfire as soon as we want to.’ Our enemies did indeed have the appearance of vermin, perhaps because of their numbers. There seemed a couple of hundred at least. The pack moved forward in concert suddenly and I had an impression of ruined faces, bestial hands, twisted bodies, ragged clothes – men and women both. But Montsorbier was not with them.

  Another thump as the pack collided with the inn. The Red O’Dowd shivered. ‘A disgusting assembly, Sir. The worst I’ve seen. They’ve recruited every degenerate in the Deeper City.’ His face showed his contemptuous hatred as their squealing began. We could even smell them, a scent like long-neglected wounds.

  I glanced back. Libussa wrinkled her nose, not so used to that battlefield stink as I. She put a hand to her face, looking as if she might vomit. The gesture made von Bresnvorts confident (he was fool enough to ignore the fact he was trapped with us) and he lunged for her pistol, which went off. Von Bresnvorts was struck in the stomach and doubled up, croaking like a frog. Blood and bile streamed from his lips. Libussa looked down in almost uncomprehending dismay. Klosterheim shifted his foot so that the stuff should not strike his boot, but otherwise he made no move. He was aware his position was dangerous. Von Bresnvorts tried to speak through the filth in his mouth. His eyes rolled up into his head. His features writhed.

  ‘See if he carried powder and shot on him,’ said I to her. ‘Then reload your pistol.’

  This rallied her as I’d seen no woman rally before. I was not surprised, for I trusted her courage. She conquered her horror and even as von Bresnvorts fell to the boards she had ripped back his cloak to find the horn at his belt. She pulled that and the pouch free, setting foot against his still-living body so that she could tug the harder.

  ‘For the love of God!’ he croaked. ‘Spare me a moment, Madam, to die in!’

  One last eruption and he was quiescent – not dead, for that would take a while longer, but in a death faint preserving him from the worst of his agonies. Expertly, Libussa began to reload the dragoon pistol.

  Another great THUMP.

  ‘Discharge!’ merrily shouted the Red O’Dowd, and off went the muskets from every aperture and back fell the mob, holed and bloody, but still squeaking. I had seen nothing like it before, even amongst the crazed Indians of the Americas who chewed some kind of root prior to battle, thus becoming unaware of pain or fear, uncomprehending even of their own deaths.

  Another volley. More fell into the cobbled street around the horse trough. Then, from the opposite side, came a further rattling of musketry. Down went some more. They turned as a mass and began to run at the source of this fresh annoyance. And there came a second wave of leaden balls to smash them to the ground. At that rate, thought I, there would be no real work left to do. Montsorbier was a fool to think he could succeed with such an attack. Those people were almost all unarmed, save for a few butcher’s knives, flenchers and clubs.

  ‘Discharge!’ cried the grinning O’Dowd. ‘They shall not deceive an old soldier so easy, Sir,’ he said to me. He chuckled. ‘I’ve been at this for twenty years and learned every weakness of my own defences and covered ’em. They’ll be on the roof no doubt – and this simply a diversion. Well, I’ve plenty to greet ’em when they’ve made the climb!’

  Off went the muskets again and down went the vermin. And soon I heard terrible cries from above. In ones and twos, then in threes and fours, flaming figures dropped into the street. The Red O’Dowd regarded them with an expression of deep satisfaction, much as a craftsman might look upon a finished artefact.

  But then there came a sound from underfoot. Still, the Red O’Dowd was unperturbed. Klosterheim glanced down, his expression mysteriously knowing. Had they mined their way in? Were there tunnels?

  ‘Sewers, Sir,’ said the O’Dowd. ‘A warren of ’em. There is a junction of some kind here, because of our spring and the Rätt I’d guess. So they all think they can strike from there. I’m surprised they got so far. There must be scores of them!’

  ‘You had men waiting?’

  ‘Not men, Sir. Oh, no!’ He winked at me, turning his head to look once more out of the window. He pursed his lips, stroking his red beard, half-smiling as corpses piled one upon the other and blazing bodies, arms still waving, plummeted on top of those. It was grisly. It was essentially a massacre. But it was of their own doing. The O’Dowd sighed. ‘This reminds me of Culloden, Sir. Were you ever
there?’

  ‘You mistake me for an older man, Sir. That was in forty-five. I cannot believe you witnessed the battle either!’

  ‘I heard it from my father. His brother joined what he saw as the Catholic cause, the Stuart cause. He was with Bonnie Prince Charlie when all those poor boys were mown down. He did not run at the guns as they did. There was no point to it, he said. Charlie was drunk. Insensible, my father said. Half the time he looked the wrong way. He had to be propped back on his horse, wig all askew, fingers seeking the brandy kept in a great flask on his pommel. Well, Sir, me uncle went back to Kinsale. He said he would rather starve in the Famine than be harvested like corn.’ The O’Dowd chatted easily, as if relaxed with a pot of ale at his own board. Then he was alert suddenly, cocking his ear.

  He grew uneasy. ‘They should not be up this far.’ He called across the room. ‘Grigorief – take three of the lads to check all’s well in the cellars!’

  Musket in hand, the Ukrainian ran to obey.

  Libussa, casually directing her pistol at Klosterheim, since our former ally now sat at the bench, sipping an abandoned glass of wine, crossed to where I was still positioned at the window. ‘What’s afoot down there?’ she asked.

  ‘Attack from the sewers, Sir,’ said the O’Dowd, who still believed her a youth. ‘I was telling Herr von Bek – they always think I haven’t defended that point. But ’tis the best defended of all!’

  The violence of the frontal attack was subsiding under the steady musketry. Fewer bodies slumped, blazing, onto those below. The storm was apparently subsiding.

  Then Grigorief came bursting up, face wild with astonishment. ‘They’ve breached the alestore! The wall’s giving way!’

  ‘Impossible!’ cried the Red O’Dowd. ‘Oh, I’m an idiot for being so complacent. This is what brings down good men and empires both!’ He ran for the stairs to the cellars and I ran with him. But he was ahead of me by a good few yards and had turned in the torchlight, coming back, face grim and pale, to bellow for reinforcements. ‘Send half the lads to me here!’

  ‘Is it bad?’ asked I.

  ‘Bad as can be, Sir. They’ve killed or drugged my fish.’

  I had no time to ask him to explain that fish. Either it was a nickname or an unfamiliar piece of cant. There were yells from further into the cellars. A ragged musketade, more shouts, metal against metal. Down the steps, precise as Hessians, came more of the O’Dowd’s men. He directed them forward. I was an obstruction so I started back up again. ‘I’ll fetch my weapon.’

  Libussa was there as I came up. ‘I’ll bring you a sword,’ I said. ‘I have two.’

  Up I went to the gallery where pickaroons were calling out for more shot and powder. The serving maids brought this as readily as they hauled ale. I entered our room and from the closet drew Lucifer’s gift to me. The pommel was duller and the eagle could not be seen (it appeared to have seasons, that pommel) but yet it pulsed faintly. I picked up my sabre for Libussa. Back down the stairs, where Klosterheim glanced at me. He ate nothing as a rule, yet now he was folding his mouth upon a pork bone, as if he could only take nourishment when enough were dying around him. I had the impulse to run him through at that moment. He sensed my hatred. For a second time, he laughed.

  This sound was drowned by a scream.

  A window at the front was bulging. The scream came from several throats. Half a dozen creatures had hurled themselves forward at once and were through the glass, almost into the tavern. The O’Dowd soldiers sent concentrated fire into those unsavoury bodies. The mass fell back. Shutters were slammed and secured. Into the fresh silence, Klosterheim continued to laugh.

  I ran on, back down the cellar stairs. Down into a stink of gunpowder and sewage, of rush torches, fermenting hops and sour wine. In the darkness ahead I saw the flicker of lights, the flash of guns. Libussa made herself visible and I handed her the sabre. ‘Hard to say if Montsorbier’s goal is the Grail or us.’

  ‘Both,’ she said. ‘I’m certain. Everything must combine. And he must get hold of the tincture, too. Though it’s possible he has his own concoction. Or the girl has it. But the tincture’s useless without the Cup to put it in. The Sword –’ she glanced down at my blade – ‘will give additional power. ’Tis perfection if the ritual’s performed accurately. That is why I grow so impatient! Von Bek, I’ve half a mind to let Montsorbier through – simply in the hope he’ll lead us to the Grail. Or must we torture Klosterheim?’

  ‘I doubt it’s possible,’ I said, ‘to torture Klosterheim. What’s more, I doubt he knows more than we do.’

  The Red O’Dowd came by cursing. ‘Where’s my damned fish?’

  The musketeers had fallen back by a yard or two. They still fired, but the fire was now returned. Here were all Montsorbier’s men. He had put his best troops into that branch of the attack, and with good reason, it seemed. The O’Dowd’s men were going down, one or two at a time. Soon there would not be enough to defend the whole tavern against a major breach.

  We were grouped in a beer cellar now, with great casks stacked on all sides of us, some against the walls, some on free-standing racks. I felt colder, ill-smelling air and could just see ahead to the far wall, where it had been burst in as if by a gigantic fist. Through the gap leapt armed men, covered by fire from behind.

  O’Dowd was muttering to himself. ‘Maybe our only real chance is to blow up the whole damned cellar. What a terrible waste of ale. I never thought it could come to this. Who leads ’em, von Bek?’

  ‘One of France’s best captains,’ I told him. ‘A seasoned veteran of both battle and revolution. Montsorbier.’

  ‘He’s a good soldier.’ The Irishman lifted his loaded horse-pistol to scratch his red nose. ‘Especially since he’s found a way to overwhelm my fish.’

  ‘The fish, is it some sort of war machine?’ I asked.

  The O’Dowd laughed as if I’d told a deliberate joke. ‘Of course, Sir! Of course it is! Oh, ho, ho, ho!’ And tears started in his eyes and rolled down his red cheeks like marbles on plush. ‘Ye’ve a keen wit, Sir!’

  I could only wish the jest were intentional. I was still none the wiser on the matter of his fish. More muskets barked; more accurate retaliation came. They had stalemate, it seemed. Then a voice called out from within and I saw a great white kerchief waving on a sword. ‘Parley!’ cried Montsorbier. ‘Parley, Sir!’

  ‘What the devil have ye done with my fish, Sir?’ called back the Red O’Dowd.

  ‘He’ll furnish the victory feast now, Sir!’ Montsorbier was elated. That storming and breaching was as much to his taste as it was to the O’Dowd’s. I saw him now in the torchlight, his black coat buttoned across his chest, his bicorne side-on, a tricolour cockade freshly sported, a Revolutionary sash about his waist. He seemed to have restored himself as Klosterheim had not. He lifted a sabre to his smiling face in salute and the white flag was waved again. ‘Parley with us, Sir, I beg you. All we ask is your Cup!’

  ‘Cup?’ exclaimed O’Dowd in some annoyance. ‘That damned Cup again. Von Bek, will you tell him I have no damned Cup!’

  ‘The Red O’Dowd has no damned Cup!’ cried I.

  ‘Apart from the pots and tankards in my taproom!’ added the Irishman, shouting louder than myself.

  Montsorbier was remorseless. ‘Give it up, sir, and we’ll retire. Let von Bek and his companion bring it to us. They’ll be hostages for the rest of you.’

  ‘He wants you now, von Bek!’ The Red O’Dowd winked. ‘They must feel they have a strong position. Don’t they think I’d know if I had charge of the Holy Grail? Eh, von Bek? Your family guards it, not mine…’

  ‘And searches for it when it’s lost, I’m told. Ironic it should fall to me, an atheist and a sinner, to fulfil that search!’ I was contemptuous of them all.

  ‘Well, Sir, God chooses us for strange tasks. And hides His greatest treasures in queer places, so the priests used to tell me.’

  ‘Make haste, gentlemen,’ called Montsorbier. ‘Do you give us
the Grail or must we fight on?’

  ‘What have ye done to my fish, Sir?’ cried the Red O’Dowd. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Ready for cooking, Sir!’ Still under the white flag, Montsorbier began retreating. I wanted to take another potshot at him and was about to borrow a gun when suddenly, from a corner of the cellar, there sparked a candle brighter than the rest. The flame grew suddenly stronger, dazzling us. Libussa cursed and put both hands to her eyes.

  The Red O’Dowd was jubilant, on his feet and grinning. A shot went off and a bullet almost caught him. I pulled him down. ‘What is it, O’Dowd?’

  ‘Why, Sir, ’tis our old helmet,’ he said, ‘though I’m not sure it can achieve much against a seasoned warrior like Mr Montsorbier.’

  The light shaded from gold to silver, spreading until it entirely filled our cellar. The Red O’Dowd beamed, as if at a friend.

  ‘Who does it belong to?’ I asked in astonishment.

  ‘It’s the property of us all, I suppose, Sir. I don’t rightly know. ’Tis just our old helmet… Does it not make ye feel peaceful, Sir, and full of joy?’

  I could now just detect the source of the light, from a high shelf above the barrels. It was apparently, as O’Dowd had said, no more than a simple helmet, of the sort the French called chapelle-de-fer; this one of steel studded with brass; an ordinary enough war-hat, like an upturned porringer.

  Now Libussa started forward, her eyes shining. ‘Surely you recognise it, von Bek? Surely you know the true nature of your helmet, O’Dowd?’

  All at once the Irishman began to laugh at himself. ‘Aye, Sir! Of course! Is it the Holy Grail?’

  ‘Aye,’ she said sardonically, ‘that is what it is.’

  ‘There’s the reason,’ continued the O’Dowd, ‘why ’tis so elusive. But what’s it doing in a common tavern?’ He put his hand on her shoulder as she reached towards it. ‘Don’t try to handle it, Herr Foltz. ’Tis inclined to bite anyone who tries.’