The History of the Runestaff

by Michael Moorcock

  Hawkmoon tasted the wine. It was excellent.

  "My own invention, the wine," said Kalan, and smirked.

  "It is unfamiliar," Hawkmoon admitted. "What grape . . . ?"

  "No grape - but grain. A somewhat different process."

  "It is strong."

  "Stronger than most wines," agreed the Baron. "Now, Duke, you know that I have been commissioned to establish your sanity, judge your temperament, and decide whether you are fit to serve His Majesty the King-Emperor Huon."

  "I believe that is what Baron Meliadus told me." Hawkmoon smiled faintly. "I will be interested in learning your observations."

  "Hmm . . ." Baron Kalan looked closely at Hawkmoon.

  "I can see why I was asked to entertain you. I must say that you appear to be rational."

  "Thank you." Under the influence of the strange wine, Hawkmoon was rediscovering some of his former irony.

  Baron Kalan rubbed at his face and coughed a dry, barely heard cough for some several moments. His manner had contained some nervousness since he removed the mask.

  Hawkmoon had already noticed how the people of Granbretan preferred to keep their masks on most of the time. Now Kalan reached toward the extravagant snake-mask and placed it over his head. The coughing stopped immediately, and the man's body relaxed visibly. Although Hawkmoon had heard that it was a breach of Granbretanian etiquette to retain one's mask when entertaining a guest of noble station, he affected to show no surprise at the Baron's action.

  "Ah, my lord Duke," came the whisper from within the mask, "who am I to judge what sanity is? There are those who judge we of Granbretan insane. . . ."

  "Surely not."

  "It is true. Those with blunted perceptions, who cannot see the grand plan, are not convinced of the nobility of our great crusade. They say, you know, that we are mad, ha, ha!" Baron Kalan rose. "But now, if you will accompany me, we will begin our preliminary investigations."

  Back through the hall of machines they went, entering another hall, only slightly smaller than the first. This had the same dark walls, but these pulsed with an energy that gradually shifted along the spectrum from violet to black and back again. There was only a single machine in the hall, a thing of gleaming blue and red metal, with projections, arms, and attachments, a great bell-like object suspended from an intricate scaffold affair that was part of the machine. On one side was a console, attended by a dozen men in the uniform of the Order of the Snake, their metal masks partially reflecting the pulsing light from the walls. A noise filled the hall, emanating from the machine, a faintly heard clatter, a moan, a series of hissings as if it breathed like a beast.

  "This is our mentality machine," Baron Kalan said proudly.

  "This is what will test you."

  "It is very large," said Hawkmoon, stepping toward it.

  "One of our largest. It has to be. It must perform complex tasks. This is the result of scientific sorcery, my lord Duke, none of your hit-and-miss spell singing you find on the Continent. It is our science that gives us our chief advantage over lesser nations."

  As the effect of the drink wore off, Hawkmoon became increasingly the man he had been in the prison catacombs.

  His sense of detachment grew, and when he was led forward and made to stand under the bell when it was lowered, he felt little anxiety or curiosity.

  At last the bell completely covered him, and its fleshy sides moved in to mold themselves around his body. It was an ob-scene embrace and would have horrified the Dorian Hawkmoon who had fought the Battle of Koln, but this new Hawkmoon felt only a vague impatience and discomfort. He began to feel a crawling sensation in his skull, as if incredibly fine wires were entering his head and probing at his brain.

  Hallucinations began to manifest themselves. He saw bright oceans of color, distorted faces, buildings and flora of unnatural perspective. It rained jewels for a hundred years, and then black winds blew across his eyes and were torn apart to reveal oceans that were at once frozen and in motion, beasts of infinite sympathy and goodness, women of amazing humanity. Interspersed with these visions came clear memories of his childhood, of his life up until the moment he had entered the machine. Piece by piece, the memories built up until the whole of his life had been recalled and presented to him. But still he felt no other emotion save the remembrance of the emotion he had had in that past time. When at last the sides of the bell moved back and the bell itself began to rise, Hawkmoon stood impassively, feeling as if he had witnessed the experience of another.

  Kalan was there and took his arm, leading him away from the mentality machine. "The preliminary investigations show you to be rather more than normally sane, my lord Duke - if I read the instruments correctly. The mentality machine will report in detail in a few hours. Now you must rest, and we shall continue our tests in the morning."

  The next day Hawkmoon was again given over to the embrace of the mentality machine, and this time he lay full-length within its belly, looking upward while picture after picture was flashed before his eyes and the pictures that they first reminded him of were then flashed onto a screen. Hawkmoon's face hardly altered its expression while all this went on. He experienced a series of hallucinations where he was thrown into highly dangerous situations - an ocean ghoul attacking him, an avalanche, three swordsmen as opponents, the need to leap from the third story of a building or be burned to death - and in every case he rescued himself with courage and skill, though his reflexes were mechanical, unin-spired by any particular sense of fear. Many such tests were made, and he passed through them all without ever once showing any strong emotion of any kind. Even when he was induced by the mentality machine to laugh, weep, hate, love, and so on, the reactions were chiefly physical in expression.

  At length Hawkmoon was released by the machine and faced Baron Kalan's snake-mask.

  "It would seem that you are, in some peculiar way, too sane, my lord Duke," whispered the Baron. "A paradox, eh?

  Aye, too sane. It is as if some part of your brain has disappeared altogether or has been cut off from the rest. However, I can only report to Baron Meliadus that you seem eminently suited to his purpose, so long as certain sensible precautions are taken."

  "What purpose is that?" Hawkmoon asked with no real interest.

  "That is for him to say."

  Shortly afterward, Baron Kalan took his leave of Hawkmoon, who was escorted through a labyrinth of corridors by two guards of the Order of the Mantis. At length they arrived outside a door of burnished silver that opened to reveal a sparsely furnished room entirely lined with mirrors on walls, floor, and ceiling, save for a single large window at the far end that opened on to a balcony overlooking the city. Near the window stood a figure in a black wolf-mask who could only be Baron Meliadus.

  Baron Meliadus turned and motioned for the guards to leave. Then he pulled a cord, and tapestries rippled down the walls to hide the mirrors. Hawkmoon could still look up or down and see his own reflection if he desired. Instead he looked out of the window.

  A thick fog covered the city, swirling green-black about the towers, obscuring the river. It was evening, with the sun almost completely set, and the towers looked like strange, unnatural rock formations, jutting from a primordial sea. If a great reptile had risen from it and pressed an eye to the grimy moisture-streaked window it would not have been surprising.

  Without the wall mirrors, the room became even gloomier, for there was no artificial source of light. The Baron, framed against the window, hummed to himself, ignoring Hawkmoon.

  From somewhere in the depths of the city a faint distorted cry echoed through the fog and then faded. Baron Meliadus lifted his wolf-mask and looked carefully at Hawkmoon, whom he could now barely see. "Come nearer to the window, my lord," he said. Hawkmoon moved forward, his feet slipping once or twice on the rugs that partially covered the glass floor.

  "Well," Meliadus began, "I have spoken to Baron Kalan, and he reports an enigma, a psyche he can hardly interpret.

  He said
it seemed that some part of it had died. What did it die of? I wonder. Of grief? Of humiliation? Of fear? I had not expected such complications. I had expected to bargain with you man to man, trading something you desired for a service I required of you. While I see no reason not to continue to obtain this service, I am not altogether sure, now, how to go about it. Would you consider a bargain, my lord Duke?"

  "What do you propose?" Hawkmoon stared beyond the Baron, through the window at the darkening sky.

  "You have heard of Count Brass, the old hero?"

  "Yes."

  "He is now Lord Guardian, Protector of the Province of the Kamarg."

  "I have heard that."

  "He has proved stubborn in opposing the will of the King-Emperor, he has insulted Granbretan. We wish to encourage wisdom in him. The way to do this will be to capture his daughter, who is dear to him, and bring her to Granbretan as a hostage. However, he would trust no emissary that we sent nor any common stranger - but he must have heard of your exploits at the Battle of Koln and doubtless sympathizes with you. If you were to go to the Kamarg seeking sanctuary from the Empire of Granbretan, he would almost certainly welcome you. Once within his walls, it would not be too difficult for a man of your resourcefulness to pick the right moment, abduct the girl, bring her back to us. Beyond the borders of the Kamarg we should, naturally, be able to give you plenty of support. The Kamarg is a small territory. You could easily escape."

  "That is what you desire of me ?"

  "Just so. In return we give you back your estates to rule as you please so long as you take no part against the Dark Empire, whether in word or deed."

  "My people live in misery under Granbretan," Hawkmoon said suddenly, as if in revelation. He spoke without passion but rather like one making an abstract moral decision. "It would be better for them if I ruled them."

  "Ah!" Baron Meliadus smiled. "So my bargain does seem reasonable!"

  "Yes, though I do not believe you will keep your part of it."

  "Why not? It is essentially to our advantage if a trouble-some state can be ruled by someone whom it trusts-and whom we may trust also."

  "I will go to the Kamarg. I will tell them the tale you suggest. I will capture the girl and bring her to Granbretan."

  Hawkmoon sighed and looked at Baron Meliadus. "Why not?"

  Discomfited by the strangeness of Hawkmoon's manner, unused to dealing with such a personality, Meliadus frowned.

  "We cannot be absolutely sure that you are not indulging in some complex form of deceit to trick us into releasing you.

  Although the mentality machine is infallible in the case of all other subjects who have been tested by it, it could be that you are aware of some secret sorcery that confuses it."

  "I know nothing of sorcery."

  "So I believe - almost." Baron Meliadus's tone became somewhat cheerful. "But we have no need to fear - there is an excellent precaution we can take against any treachery from you. A precaution that will bring you back to us or kill you if we have reason no longer to trust you. It is a device recently discovered by Baron Kalan, though I understand it is not his original invention. It is called the Black Jewel. You will be supplied with it tomorrow. Tonight you will sleep in apartments prepared for you in the palace. Before you leave you will have the honor of being presented to His Majesty the King-Emperor. Few foreigners are granted so much."

  With that, Meliadus called to the insect-masked guards and ordered them to escort Hawkmoon to his quarters.

  Chapter Three - THE BLACK JEWEL

  NEXT MORNING, Dorian Hawkmoon was taken to see Baron Kalan again. The serpent-mask seemed to bear an almost cynical expression as it regarded him, but the Baron said hardly a word, merely led him through a series of rooms and halls until they reached a room with a door of plain steel. This was opened, to reveal a similar door that, when opened, revealed a third door. This led into a small, blinding-ly lighted chamber of white metal that contained a machine of intense beauty. It consisted almost entirely of delicate red, gold, and silver webs, strands of which brushed Hawkmoon's face and had the warmth and vitality of human skin. Faint music came from the webs, which moved as if in a breeze.

  "It seems alive," said Hawkmoon.

  "It is alive," Baron Kalan whispered proudly. "It is alive."

  "Is it a beast?"

  "No. It is the creation of sorcery. I am not even sure what it is. I built it according to the instructions of a grimoire I bought from an Easterner many years ago. It is the machine of the Black Jewel. Ah, and soon you will become much more intimately acquainted with it, lord Duke."

  Deep within him, Hawkmoon felt a faint stirring of panic, but it did not begin to rise to the surface of his mind. He let the strands of red and gold and silver caress him.

  "It is not complete," Kalan said. "Not complete. It must spin the jewel. Move closer to it, my lord. Move in to it. You will feel no pain, I guarantee. It must spin the Black Jewel."

  Hawkmoon obeyed the Baron, and the webs rustled and began to sing. His ears became confounded, the traceries of red, gold, and silver confused his eyes. The machine of the Black Jewel fondled him, seemed to enter him, become him and he it. He sighed, and his voice was the music of the webs; he moved and his limbs were tenuous strands.

  There was pressure from within his skull, and he felt a sense of absolute warmth and softness suffuse his body. He drifted as if bodiless and lost the sense of passing time, but he knew that the machine was spinning something from its own substance, making something that became hard and dense and implanted itself in his forehead so that suddenly he seemed to possess a third eye and stared out at the world with a new kind of vision. Then gradually this faded and he was looking at Baron Kalan, who had removed his mask, the better to regard him.

  Hawkmoon felt a sudden sharp pain in his head. The pain vanished almost at once. He looked back at the machine, but its colors had dulled and its webs seemed to have shrunk. He lifted a hand to his forehead and felt with a shock something there that had not been there before. It was hard and smooth.

  It was part of him. He shuddered.

  Baron Kalan looked concerned. "Eh? You are not mad, are you? I was sure of success! You are not mad?

  "I am not mad," Hawkmoon said. "But I think that I am afraid."

  "You will become accustomed to the jewel."

  "That is what is in my head? The jewel?"

  "Aye. The Black Jewel. Wait." Kalan turned and drew aside a curtain of scarlet velvet, revealing a flat oval of milky quartz about two feet long. In it, a picture began to form.

  Hawkmoon saw that the picture was that of Kalan staring into the quartz oval, into infinity. The screen revealed exactly what Hawkmoon saw. As he turned his head slightly, the picture altered accordingly.

  Kalan muttered in delight. "It works, you see. What you perceive, the jewel perceives. Wherever you go we shall be able to see everything and everyone you encounter."

  Hawkmoon tried to speak, but he could not. His throat was tight, and there seemed to be something constricting his lungs. Again he touched the warm jewel, so similar to flesh in texture, but so unlike it in every other way.

  "What have you done to me?" he asked eventually, his tone as flat as ever.

  "We have merely secured your loyalty," chuckled Kalan.

  "You have taken part of the life of the machine. Should we so desire, we can give all the machine's life to the jewel, and then . . ."

  Hawkmoon reached out stiffly and touched the Baron's arm. "What will it do?"

  "It will eat your brain, Duke of Koln. It will eat your brain."

  Baron Meliadus hurried Dorian Hawkmoon through the glittering passages of the palace. Now Hawkmoon had a sword at his side and a suit of clothes and mail much like those he had worn at the Battle of Koln. He was conscious of the jewel in his skull but of little else. The passages widened until they covered the area of a good-sized street. Guards in the masks of the Order of the Mantis were thick along the walls. Mighty doors, a mass of jewels mak
ing mosaic patterns, towered ahead of them.

  "The throne room," murmured the Baron. "Now the King-Emperor will inspect you."

  Slowly the doors moved open, to reveal the glory of the throne room. It blazed, half-blinding Hawkmoon with its magnificence. There was glitter and music; from a dozen galleries that rose to the concave roof were draped the shimmering banners of five hundred of Granbretan's noblest families. Lining the walls and galleries, rigid with their flame-lances at the salute, were the soldiers of the Order of the Mantis in their insect-masks and their plate armor of black, green, and gold. Behind them, in a multitude of different masks and a profusion of rich clothing, were the courtiers.

  They peered curiously at Meliadus and Hawkmoon as they entered.

  The Lines of soldiers stretched into the distance. There, at the end of the hall, almost out of sight, hung something that Hawkmoon could not at first make out. He frowned. "The throne globe," whispered Meliadus. "Now do as I do." He began to pace forward.

  The walls of the throne room were of lustrous green and purple, but the colors of the banners ranged the spectrum, as did the fabrics, metals, and precious gems that the courtiers wore. But Hawkmoon's eyes were fixed on the globe.

  Dwarfed by the proportions of the throne room, Hawkmoon and Meliadus walked with measured pace toward the throne globe while fanfares were played by trumpeters in the galleries to left and right.

  Eventually Hawkmoon could see the throne globe, and he was astonished. It contained a milky-white fluid that surged about sluggishly, almost hypnotically. At times the fluid seemed to contain iridescent radiance that would gradually fade and then return. In the center of this fluid, reminding Hawkmoon of a fetus, drifted an ancient, ancient man, his skin wrinkled, his limbs apparently useless, his head over-large. From this head stared sharp, malicious eyes.