The History of the Runestaff

by Michael Moorcock

  Without warcries, their only sound the thunder of their horses' hooves and the clank of their accoutrements, the Kamargians plunged forward, led by Hawkmoon, who leaned across his horse's neck and made straight for a surprised guard. His sword took the man in the throat, and with a gurgling murmur the guard collapsed. Through the first of the tents they went, slashing at guy ropes, cutting down the few armed men who tried to stop them, and still the Granbretanians had no idea who attacked them. Hawkmoon reached the center of the first circle, and his sword swung in a great arc as he chopped at the standard that stood there - the standard of the Order of the Hound. The pole cracked, groaned, and fell into a cooking fire, sending up a great shower of sparks.

  Hawkmoon did not pause; he urged his horse on into the heart of the huge camp. On the riverbank there was no alarm, for the invaders could not be heard over the din the Granbretanians themselves made.

  Three half-armored swordsmen ran toward Hawkmoon.

  He yanked his horse sideways and swung his broadsword left and right, meeting their blades and striking one from its owner's hand. The other two pressed in, but Hawkmoon chopped at a wrist, severing it. The remaining warrior backed away, and Hawkmoon lunged at him, his sword piercing the man's breast.

  The horse reared, and Hawkmoon fought to control it, forcing it through another line of tents, his men following.

  He broke out across an open space, to see his way blocked by a group of warriors dressed only in nightshirts and armed with swords and bucklers. Hawkmoon shouted an order to his horsemen, and they spread out to charge full tilt at the line, their swords held straight before them. Almost in a single movement they killed or knocked flying the line of warriors and were through into the next circle of tents, guy ropes twisting in the air as they were cut, tents collapsing upon their occupants.

  At last, his sword glistening with blood, Hawkmoon fought his way to the center of this circle, and there stood what he sought - the proud mantis banner of the Order of which the King-Emperor himself was Grand Constable. A band of warriors stood round it, pulling on helmets and adjusting their shields on their arms. Without waiting to see if his men followed, Hawkmoon thundered toward them with a wild yell. A shiver ran up his arm as his sword clanged against the shield of the nearest warrior, but he lifted it again, and the sword split the shield, gashing the face of the man behind it so that he reeled back, spitting blood from his ruined mouth.

  Another Hawkmoon took in the side, and another's head was shorn off clean. His blade rose and fell like some relent-less machine, and now his men joined him, pressing the warriors farther and farther back into a tighter and tighter ring about the mantis banner.

  Hawkmoon's mail was ripped by a sword-stroke, his shield was struck from his arm, but he fought on until only one man stood by the banner.

  Hawkmoon grinned, leaned forward, tipped the man's helmet off his head with a movement of his sword, and clove the skull in twain. Then he reached out and yanked the mantis banner from the earth, raised it high to display it to his cheering men, and turned his horse about, riding for the hills again, the steed leaping corpses and tangled tents with ease.

  He heard a wounded warrior yell from behind him, "Did you see him? He has a black jewel imbedded in his skull!" — and he knew that before long Baron Meliadus would understand who had raided his camp and stolen his army's most precious standard.

  Hawkmoon turned in the direction of the shout, shook the banner triumphantly, and laughed a wild, mocking laugh.

  "Hawkmoon!" he cried. "Hawkmoon!" It was the age-old battleshout of his forefathers. It sprang unconsciously to his lips now, bidden by his will to let his great enemy Meliadus, the slayer of his kin, know who opposed him.

  The coal-black stallion on which he rode reared up, red nostrils flaring, eyes glaring, was wheeled around on its hind-legs, and plunged through the confusion of the camp.

  Behind them came mounted warriors, hastily riding in pursuit, goaded on by Hawkmoon's infuriating laughter.

  Hawkmoon and his men soon reached the hills again and headed for the secret encampment they had already prepared.

  Behind them blundered Meliadus's men. Looking back, Hawkmoon saw that the scene on the dried-up riverbank had turned into even greater confusion. Torches moved hurriedly toward the camp.

  Knowing the country as they did, Hawkmoon's men had soon outdistanced their pursuers and at length come to a rocky hillside where they had camouflaged a cave entrance the previous day. Into this cave they now rode, dismounting and replacing the camouflage. The cave was large, and there were even larger caverns beyond it, big enough to take their whole force and stable their horses. A small stream ran through the farthest cave, which held provisions for several days. Other secret camps had been prepared all the way back to the Kamarg.

  Someone lit brands, and Hawkmoon dismounted, hefting the mantis standard and flinging it into a corner. He grinned at round-faced Pelaire, his chief lieutenant.

  "Tomorrow Meliadus will send engineers back to our dam, once his ornithopters have reported. We must make sure they do not destroy our handiwork."

  Pelaire nodded. "Aye, but even if we slay one party, he'll send another. . . ."

  Hawkmoon shrugged. "And another, doubtless - but I rely upon his impatience to reach the Kamarg. At length he should realize the pointlessness in wasting time and men in trying to redivert the river. Then he will press on - and with luck, if we survive, we should be able to drive him southeast to our borders."

  Pelaire had begun to count the numbers of the returned warriors. Hawkmoon waited until he had finished, then asked,

  "What losses?"

  Pelaire's face was a mixture of elation and disbelief. "None, master - we have not lost a man!"

  "A good omen," Hawkmoon said, slapping Pelaire on the back. "Now we must rest, for we have a long ride in the morning."

  At dawn, the guard they had left at the entrance came back to report bad news.

  "A flying machine," he told Hawkmoon as the Duke washed himself in the stream. "It has been circling above for the last ten minutes."

  "Do you think the pilot has guessed something - made out our tracks, perhaps?" Pelaire put in.

  "Impossible," Hawkmoon said, drying his face. "The rock would show nothing even to someone on the ground. We must bide our time - those ornithopters cannot remain airborne for long without returning to repower."

  But an hour later the guard returned to say that a second ornithopter had come to replace the first. Hawkmoon bit his lip, then reached a decision. "Time is running out. We must reach the dam before the engineers can begin work. We shall have to resort to a riskier plan than I'd hoped to employ. ..."

  Swiftly he drew one of his men aside and spoke to him; then he gave orders for two flame-lancers to come forward, and last, he told the rest of his men to saddle their horses and be prepared to leave the cavern.

  A little later, a single horseman rode out of the cavern entrance and began slowly to ride down the gentle, rocky slope.

  Watching from the cave, Hawkmoon saw the sun glance off the body of the great, brazen flying machine as its mechanical wings flapped noisily in the air and it began to descend toward the lone man. Hawkmoon had counted on the pilot's curiosity. Now he made a gesture with his hand, and the flame-lancers brought their long, unwieldy weapons up, their ruby coils already beginning to glow in readiness. The disadvantages of the flame-lance were that it could not be operated instantly and it often grew too hot to handle.

  Now the ornithopter was circling lower and lower. The hidden flame-lancers raised their weapons. The pilot could be seen, leaning over his cockpit, crow-mask peering downward.

  "Now," murmured Hawkmoon.

  As one, the red lines of flame left the tips of the lances. The first splashed against the side of the ornithopter and merely heated the armor a little. But the second struck the pilot's body, which almost instantly began to flare. The pilot beat at his burning garments, and his hands left the delicate controls of the machi
ne. The wings flapped erratically, and the ornithopter twisted in the air, keeled to one side, and plunged earthward with the pilot trying to bring the flying machine out of its dive. It struck a nearby hillside and crumpled to pieces, the wings still beating for an instant, the pilot's broken body flung some yards away; then it burst apart with a strange smacking sound. It did not catch fire, but pieces were scattered widely over the hillside. Hawkmoon did not understand the peculiarities of the power unit used for the ornithopters, but one of them was the manner in which it exploded.

  Hawkmoon mounted the black stallion and signaled his men to follow him. Within moments they were galloping down the rocky slope of the hill, heading for the dam they had made the day before.

  The winter's day was bright and clear, and the air was exhilarating. They rode with some confidence, cheered by their success of last night. They slowed down, eventually, when the dam was close, saw the river flowing on its new course, watched from the top of the hill as a detachment of warriors and engineers inspected the broken bridge that successfully blocked the water from its earlier course, and then charged down, the mounted flame-lancers in the lead, leaning back in their stirrups while they operated their temperamental weapons.

  Ten lines of fire poured toward the surprised Granbretanians, turning men into living brands that ran screaming for the water. Fire swept across the ranks of men in the masks of mole and badger and the protecting force in their vulture masks - Asrovak Mikosevaar's mercenaries. Then Hawkmoon's men had clashed with them, and the air rang with the clangor of their weapons. Bloody axes swung in the air, swords swept back and forth, men screamed in death agonies, horses snorted and whinnied with hooves flailing.

  Hawkmoon's horse, protected by chain armor, staggered as a huge man swung a great double-bladed war-axe at it. The horse fell, dragging Hawkmoon with it, its body trapping him.

  The vulture-masked axeman moved in, raising the weapon over Hawkmoon's face. Hawkmoon pulled his arm from beneath the horse, and there was a sword in his hand that swept up just in time to take the main force of the blow. The horse was clambering to its feet again. Hawkmoon sprang up and grabbed its reins while at the same time protecting himself from the swinging ax.

  Once, twice, thrice, the weapons met, until Hawkmoon's sword arm ached. Then he slid his blade down the shaft and struck the axeman's fists. Hawkmoon's adversary let go of the weapon with one hand, a muffled oath coming from within the mask. Hawkmoon smashed his sword against the metal mask, denting it. The man groaned and staggered. Hawkmoon got both hands on the grip of the broadsword and brought the blade around to chop deep into the head again. The vulture mask split, and a bloodied face was revealed, the bearded mouth screaming for mercy. Hawkmoon's eyes narrowed, for he loathed the mercenaries more than he loathed the Granbretanians. He delivered a third blow to the head, staving in all of one side so that the man waltzed backward, already dead, and crumpled against one of his fellows who was engaged with a Kamargian horseman.

  Hawkmoon remounted and led his men against the last of the Vulture Legion, hacking and thrusting in a fever of blood-letting, until only the engineers, armed with short swords, remained. These presented little opposition and were shortly all slain, their bodies strewn across the dam and drifting down the river they had sought to redivert.

  Pelaire glanced at Hawkmoon as they rode away toward the hills. "You have no mercy in you, captain!"

  "Aye," Hawkmoon replied distantly, "none. Man, woman, or child, if they be of or for Granbretan, they are my enemies to be slain."

  Eight of their number were dead. Considering the strength of the force they had destroyed, they had again known great luck. The Granbretanians were used to massacring their enemies, they were not used to being attacked in this manner.

  Perhaps this explained the few losses the men of the Kamarg had suffered so far.

  Four more expeditions Meliadus sent to destroy the dam, each expedition of increasing numbers. Each was destroyed in turn by sudden attacks from the horsemen of the Kamarg, and of the original two hundred riders who followed Dorian Hawkmoon, nearly a hundred and fifty remained to carry out the second part of his plan and harry the armies of Granbretan so that they turned slowly, encumbered as they were by their land-borne war engines and supplies, toward the southeast.

  Hawkmoon never afterward attacked by day, when the ornithopters circled the skies, but would creep in by night.

  His flame-lances burned scores of tents and their occupants, his arrows cut down dozen upon dozen of the men assigned to guard the tents and the warriors who went out by day to seek for the Kamargians' secret camps. Sword scarcely dried before they were wetted again, axes became blunt with their deadly work, and heavy Kamarg spears were in short supply among their original owners. Hawkmoon and his men became hag-gard and red-eyed, hardly able to keep their saddles at times, often coming within a hairsbreadth of discovery by the ornithopters or search parties. They ensured that the road from the river was lined with Granbretanian corpses - and that that road was the one they chose for the Dark Empire forces to tread.

  As Hawkmoon had guessed, Meliadus did not spend the time he should trying to seek out the guerilla riders. His impatience to reach the Kamarg dominated even his great hatred for Hawkmoon, and doubtless he reasoned that once he had vanquished the Kamarg there would be time enough to deal with Hawkmoon.

  Once and only once they came close to confronting one another, as Hawkmoon and his riders moved among the tents and cooking fires, stabbing at random and preparing to leave, since dawn was close. Meliadus, mounted, came up with a group of his wolf cavalry, saw Hawkmoon butchering a couple of men entangled in a fallen tent, and charged toward him.

  Hawkmoon looked up, raised his sword to meet Meliadus's, and smiled grimly, pushing the sword gradually backward.

  Meliadus grunted as Hawkmoon forced his arm farther and farther back.

  "My thanks, Baron Meliadus," said Hawkmoon. "The nurturing you gave me in Londra seems to have improved my strength. . . ."

  "Oh, Hawkmoon," Meliadus replied, his voice soft but shaking with rage, "I know not how you escaped the power of the Black Jewel, but you will suffer a fate many thousand times greater than the one you have avoided when I take the Kamarg and once again make you my prisoner."

  Suddenly Hawkmoon moved his blade in under the brass quillions of Meliadus's sword, turned the point, and sent the other's weapon spinning away. He raised the broadsword to strike, then realized that too many Granbretanians were coming up.

  "Time to be away, Baron, I regret. I'll remember your promise - when you're my prisoner!"

  He wheeled his horse about and, laughing, was away, leading his men out of the chaos that was the camp. With an angry motion of his hand, Meliadus dismounted to retrieve his sword. "Upstart!" he swore. "He'll crawl at my feet before the month is past."

  The day came when Hawkmoon and his riders made no further attacks on Meliadus's forces but galloped swiftly through the marshy ground that lay below the line of hills where Count Brass, Leopold von Villach, and their army awaited them. The tall dark towers, almost as ancient as Kamarg itself, loomed over the scene, packed now with more than one Guardian, snouts of bizarre weapons jutting from almost every slit.

  Hawkmoon's horse climbed the hill, approaching the soli-tary figure of Count Brass, who smiled with great warmth and relief when he recognized the young nobleman.

  "I am glad I decided to let you live, Duke von Koln," he said humorously. "You have done everything you planned - and kept the best part of your force alive. I'm not sure I could have done better myself, in my prime."

  "Thank you, Count Brass. Now we must prepare. Baron Meliadus is hardly half a day's march behind us."

  Below him now, on the far side of the hill, he could see the Kamargian force, primarily infantry, drawn up.

  At most a thousand men, they looked pitifully few compared with the vast weight of warriors marching to meet them.

  The Kamargians were outnumbered at least twenty to one, p
robably by twice that amount.

  Count Brass saw Hawkmoon's expression.

  "Do not fear, lad. We have better weapons than swords with which to resist this invasion."

  Hawkmoon had been mistaken in thinking Granbretan would reach the borders in half a day. They had decided to camp before marching on, and it was not until noon of the following day that the Kamargians saw the force approach, moving over the flat plain in a spread-out formation. Each square of infantry and cavalry was made up of a particular Order, each member of the Order pledged to defend every other member whether that member was alive or dead. This system was part of Granbretan's great strength, for it meant that no man ever retreated unless specifically ordered to do so by his Grand Constable.

  Count Brass sat on his horse and watched the enemy approach. On one side of him was Dorian Hawkmoon, on the other Leopold von Villach. Here, it was Count Brass who would give the orders. Now the battle begins in earnest, thought Hawkmoon, and it was hard to see how they could win. Was Count Brass overconfident?

  The mighty concourse of fighting men and machines came eventually to a halt about half a mile away; then two figures broke from the main body and began to ride toward the hill.

  As they came closer, Hawkmoon recognized the standard as that of Baron Meliadus and realized a moment later that one of the figures was Meliadus himself, riding with his herald. He held a bronze megaphone, symbolising the wish for a peaceful parley.

  "Surely he can't wish to surrender - or expect us to," von Villach said in a tone of disgruntlement.

  "I would think not," smiled Hawkmoon. "Doubtless this is one of his tricks. He is famous for them."

  Noting the quality of Hawkmoon's smile, Count Brass counseled, "Be wary of that hatred, Dorian Hawkmoon. Do not let it possess your reason the way it possesses Meliadus's."

  Hawkmoon stared straight in front of him and did not reply.

  Now the herald lifted the heavy megaphone to his lips.

  "I speak for Baron Meliadus, Grand Constable of the Order of the Wolf, First Chieftain of the Armies under the most noble King-Emperor Huon, ruler of Granbretan and destined ruler of all Europe."