Then they rode on, with only land now between them and the Mad God's lair.
On the third day of their journey it had begun to rain, a fine drizzle that chilled them and lowered their spirits. Their horses plodded across the vast, sodden Ukranian plains, and it seemed that there was no end to the gray world.
On the sixth day of their journey, the Warrior in Jet and Gold raised his head and brought his horse to a halt, signaling for the other three to stop. He appeared to be listening.
Soon Hawkmoon heard the sound too—the drumming of horses' hooves. Then, breasting a slight rise to their left, came some score of riders in sheepskin hats and cloaks, long spears and sabers on their backs.
They seemed in a panic, and not noticing the four onlookers, they rode past at fantastic speed, lashing the rumps of their steeds until blood flew in the air.
"What is it?" Hawkmoon called. "What do you flee from?"
One of the riders turned in his saddle, not lessening his speed. "Dark Empire army!" he called, and dashed on.
Hawkmoon frowned. "Should we continue in this direction?" he asked the warrior. "Or should we find another route?"
"No route is safe," replied the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "We might just as well take this one."
Within half an hour they saw smoke in the distance.
It was thick, oily smoke that crept close to the ground, and it stank. Hawkmoon knew what the smoke signified but said nothing until, later, they came to the town that was burning and saw, piled in the square, a huge pyramid of corpses, every one naked men, women, children, and animals heaped indiscriminately upon one another and burning.
It was this pyre of flesh that gave off the evil smelling smoke, and there was only one race Hawkmoon knew of who would indulge in such an act as this. The riders had been right, Dark Empire soldiers were nearby. There were signs that a whole battalion of troops had taken the town and razed it.
They skirted around the town, for there was nothing they could do, and in even more sober spirits continued on their journey, wary now for any sign of Granbretanian troops.
Oladahn, who had not witnessed so many of the Dark Empire's atrocities, was the one most visibly moved by the sight they had witnessed.
"Surely," he said, "ordinary mortals could not . . .could not . . ."
"They do not regard themselves as ordinary mortals," D'Averc said. "They regard themselves as demigods and their rulers as gods."
"It excuses their every immoral action in their eyes," Hawkmoon said. "And besides, they love to wreak destruction, spread terror, torture and kill.
Just as in some beasts, like the wolverine, the urge to kill is stronger even than the urge to live, so it is with those of the Dark Empire. The island has bred a race of madmen whose every thought and action is alien to those not born on Granbretan."
The depressing drizzle continued to fall as they left the town and its blazing pyramid behind.
"It is not far now to the Mad God's castle," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold.
By the next morning they had come to a wide, shallow valley and a small lake on which a gray mist moved. Beyond the lake they saw a black, gloomy shape, a building of roughhewn stone that lay on the far side of the water.
About midway between the castle and themselves, they could see a collection of rotting hovels clustered on the shore and a few boats drawn up nearby. Nets had been hung out to dry, but there was no sign of the fishers who used them.
The whole day was dark, cold, and oppressive, and there was an ominous atmosphere about lake, village, and castle. The three men followed reluctantly behind the Warrior in Jet and Gold as he made his way around the shore toward the castle.
"What of this Mad God's cult?" Oladahn whispered. "How many men does he command? And are they as ferocious as those we fought on the ship? Does the warrior underestimate their strength or overestimate our prowess?"
Hawkmoon shrugged, his only thought for Yisselda. He scanned the great black castle, wondering where she was imprisoned.
As they came to the fisherfolk's village they saw why it was so silent. Every last villager had been slain, hacked down by swords or axes. Some of the blades were still buried in skulls of men and women alike.
"The Dark Empire!" said Hawkmoon.
But the Warrior in Jet and Gold shook his head.
"Not their work. Not their weapons. Not their way."
"Then . . . what?" murmured Oladahn, shivering.
"The cult?"
The warrior did not answer. Instead, he reined in his horse and dismounted, walking heavily toward the nearest corpse. The others dismounted also, looking warily about them. The mist from the lake curled around them like some malign force that sought to trap them.
The warrior pointed at the corpse. "All these were members of the cult. Some served by fishing to provide the castle with its food. Others lived in the castle itself. Some of these are from the castle."
"They have been fighting among themselves?"
D'Averc suggested.
"In a sense, perhaps," replied the warrior.
"How do you mean—?" Hawkmoon began, but then whirled as a chilling shriek came from behind the hovels. All drew their weapons, standing in a hollow circle, prepared for an attack from any side.
But when the attack did come, the nature of the attackers caused Hawkmoon to lower his sword momentarily in astonishment.
They came running between the houses, swords and axes raised. They were dressed in breastplates and kilts of leather, and a ferocious light burned in their eyes. Their lips were drawn back in bestial snarls.
Their white teeth gleamed, and foam flecked their mouths.
But this was not what astonished Hawkmoon and his companions. It was their sex that caught them by surprise, for all the maniacally shrieking warriors rushing at them were women of incredible beauty.
As he slowly recovered his defensive stance, Hawkmoon desperately sought among the faces for that of Yisselda and was relieved that he did not find it.
"So this is why the Mad God demanded women be sent to him," D'Averc gasped. "But why?"
"He is a perverse god I understand," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold as he brought up his blade to meet the attack of the first warrior woman.
Though he defended himself desperately against the blades of the madfaced women, Hawkmoon found it impossible to counterattack. They left many openings for his sword, and he could have slain several, but every time he had the opportunity to strike, he held back. And it seemed to be the same with his companions. In a moment's respite he glanced around him, and an idea came.
"Retreat slowly," he said to his friends. "Follow me. I've a plan to make this our victory—and a bloodless one."
Gradually the four fell back until they were stopped by the poles on which the stout nets of the fishermen had been hung out to dry. Hawkmoon stepped around the first and seized one end of the net, still battling.
Oladahn guessed his scheme and grabbed the other end; then Hawkmoon cried, "Now!" and they flung the thing out over the heads of the women.
The net settled over most of them, entangling them.
But some slashed free and came on.
Now D'Averc and the Warrior in Jet and Gold had understood Hawkmoon's intention, and they, too, flung a net to trap those who had escaped. Hawkmoon and Oladahn hurled a third net over the group they had originally ensnared. Eventually the women were completely trapped in the folds of several strong nets, and the companions were able to approach them gingerly, grabbing at their weapons and gradually disarming them.
Hawkmoon panted as he raised a sword and flung it into the lake. "Perhaps the Mad God is not so insane. Train women to fight and they'll always have a certain momentary advantage over male soldiers. Doubtless this was part of some larger scheme...."
"You mean his raising money by piracy was to finance a conquering army of women?" Oladahn said, joining him in hurling weapons into the water while the struggles of the women subsided behind them.
"It seems likely," D'Averc agreed, watching them work. "But why did the women kill the others?"
"That we may find out when we reach the castle," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "We" He broke off as part of one of the nets burst and a howling warrior woman came rushing at them, fingers outstretched like claws. D'Averc seized her, encircling her waist with his arms as she kicked and shrieked.
Oladahn stepped up, reversed his sword, and struck her on the base of the skull with the pommel.
"Much as it offends my sense of chivalry," D'Averc said, lowering the prone girl to the ground, "I think that you have presented the best scheme for dealing with these pretty murderesses," Oladahn," and he crossed to the nets, to begin languidly and systematically knocking out the struggling women fighters.
"At least," he said, "we have not killed them—and they have not killed us. An excellent equilibrium."
"I wonder if they are the only ones," Hawkmoon said broodingly.
"You are thinking of Yisselda?" Oladahn asked.
"Aye, I'm thinking of Yisselda. Come." Hawkmoon swung into his saddle. "Let's to the Mad God's castle."
He began to gallop rapidly along the beach toward the great black pile. The others were slower in following, straggling behind him. First came Oladahn, then the Warrior in Jet and Gold, and finally Huillam d'Averc at a leisurely canter, looking for all the world like a carefree youth out for a morning ride.
The castle came closer, and Hawkmoon slowed his mad dash, hauling on his horse's reins and bringing it to a skidding halt as they reached the drawbridge.
Within the castle all was quiet. A little mist curled about its towers. The drawbridge was down, and on it lay the corpses of the guards.
Somewhere, from the tops of one of the highest towers, a raven squawked and flapped away over the water of the lake.
No sun shone through those gray clouds. It was as if no sun had ever shone here, as if no sun ever would shine. It was as if they had left the world for some other plane where hopelessness and death prevailed throughout eternity.
The dark entrance to the castle courtyard gaped at Hawkmoon.
The mist formed grotesque shapes, and there was an oppressive silence everywhere. Hawkmoon took a deep breath of the chill, damp air, drew his blade, kicked at the flanks of his horse, and charged across the drawbridge, leaping the corpses, to enter the Mad God's lair.
Chapter Three - HAWKMOON'S DILEMMA
THE GREAT COURTYARD of the castle was clogged with bodies. Some were of the warrior women, but most were of men wearing the collar of the Mad God. Dried blood caked the cobbles not occupied by corpses in the grotesque attitudes of death.
Hawkmoon's horse snorted in fear as the stench of decaying flesh filled its nostrils, but he urged it on, dreading that he would see Yisselda's face among the dead.
He dismounted, turning over stiff bodies of women, peering at them closely, but none was Yisselda.
The Warrior in Jet and Gold entered the courtyard, Oladahn and D'Averc behind him. "She is not here," said the warrior. "She is alive—within."
Hawkmoon's bleak face rose. His hand trembled as it took the bridle of his horse. "Has—has he done ought to her, Warrior?"
"That you must see for yourself, Duke Dorian."
The Warrior in Jet and Gold pointed at the castle's main doorway. "Through there lies the court of the Mad God. A short passage leads to the main hall, and there he sits awaiting you. . . ."
"He knows of me?"
"He knows that one day the Red Amulet's rightful wearer must arrive to claim what is his. . . ."
"I care nothing for the amulet, only for Yisselda.
Where is she, Warrior?"
"Within. She is within. Go claim both your rights—your woman and your amulet. Both are important in the Runestaff's scheme."
Hawkmoon turned and ran for the doorway, disappearing into the darkness of the castle.
The interior of the castle was incredibly chill. Cold water dripped from the roof of the passage, and moss grew on the walls. Blade in hand, Hawkmoon crept along it, halfexpecting an attack.
But none came. He reached a large wooden door, stretching twenty feet above his head, and paused.
From behind the door came a strange rumbling sound, a deepvoiced murmuring that seemed to fill the hall beyond. Cautiously Hawkmoon pushed against the door, and it yielded. He put his head through the gap and peered in upon a bizarre scene.
The hall was of strangely distorted proportions. In some parts the ceilings were very low, in others they soared upward for fifty feet. There were no windows, and the light came from brands stuck at random in the walls.
In the center of the hall, on a floor on which one or two corpses lay as they had been cut down earlier, was a great chair of black wood, studded with inlaid plaques of brass. In front of this, swinging from a part of the ceiling that was relatively low, was a large cage, such as would be used for a tame bird, save that this was much bigger. In it, Hawkmoon saw huddled a human figure.
Otherwise, the weird hall was deserted, and Hawkmoon entered, creeping across the floor toward the cage.
It was from this, he realized, that the distressed muttering sound was coming; yet it seemed impossible, for the noise was so great. Hawkmoon decided that it was because the sound was amplified by the peculiar acoustics of the hall.
He reached the cage and could see the huddled figure only dimly, for the light was poor.
"Who are you?" Hawkmoon asked. "A prisoner of the Mad God?"
The moaning ceased, and the figure stirred. From it then came a deep, echoing melancholy voice. "Aye—you could say so. The unhappiest prisoner of all."
Now Hawkmoon could make out the creature better. It had a long, stringy neck, and its body was tall and very thin. Its head was covered in long, straggling gray hair that was matted with filth, and it had a pointed beard, also filthy, that jutted from its chin for about a foot. Its nose was large and aquiline, and its deepset eyes held the light of a melancholy madness.
"Can I save you?" Hawkmoon said. "Can I prise apart the bars?"
The figure shrugged. "The door of the cage is not locked. Bars are not my prison. I have been trapped within my groaning skull. Ah, pity me."
"Who are you?"
"I was once known as Stalnikov, of the great family of Stalnikov."
"And the Mad God usurped you?"
"Aye. Usurped me. Aye, exactly." The prisoner in the unlocked cage turned his huge, sad head to stare at Hawkmoon. "Who are you?"
"I am Dorian Hawkmoon, Duke of Koln."
"A German?"
"Koln was once part of the country called Germania."
"I have a fear of Germans." Stalnikov slid back in the cage, farther away from Hawkmoon.
"You need not fear me."
"No?" Stalnikov chuckled, and the mad sound filled the hall. "No?" He reached into his jerkin and pulled something forth that was attached to a thong about his neck. The thing glowed with a deep red light, like a huge ruby, illuminated from within, and Hawkmoon saw that it bore the sign of the Runestaff.
"No? Then you are not the German who has come to steal my power?"
Hawkmoon gasped. "The Red Amulet! How did you obtain it?"
"Why," said Stalnikov, rising and grinning horribly at Hawkmoon, "I obtained it thirty years ago from the corpse of a warrior my retainers set upon and slew as he rode this way." He fondled the amulet, and its light struck Hawkmoon in the eyes so that he could barely see. "This is the Mad God. This is the source of my madness and my power. This is what imprisons me!"
"You are the Mad God! Where is my Yisselda?"
"Yisselda? The girl? The new girl with the blonde hair and the white, soft skin? Why do you ask?"
"She is mine."
"You do not want the amulet? "
"I want Yisselda."
The Mad God laughed, and his laughter filled the hall and reverberated through every cranny of the distorted place. "Then you shall have her, German!"
He clappe
d his clawlike hands, his whole body moving like a looselimbed puppet's, the cage swinging wildly. "Yisselda, my girl! Yisselda, come forth to serve your master!"
From the depths of one part of the hall where the ceiling almost touched the floor, a girl emerged.
Hawkmoon saw her outlined but could not be fully sure it was Yisselda. He sheathed his sword and moved forward. Yes . . . the movements, the stance—they were Yisselda's.
A smile of relief began to form on his lips as he stretched out his arms to embrace her.
Then there came a wild animal shriek, and the girl rushed at him, metaltaloned fingers reaching for his eyes, face distorted with bloodlust, every part of her body enclosed on a garment studded with outward jutting spikes.
"Kill him, pretty Yisselda," chuckled the Mad God. "Kill him, my flower, and we shall reward you with his offal."
Hawkmoon put up his hands to fend off the claws, and the back of one of them was slashed badly. He backed away hastily. "Yisselda, no—it is your betrothed, Dorian. . . ."
But the mad eyes showed no sign of recognition, and the mouth slavered as the girl slashed again with the talons of metal. Hawkmoon leaped away, pleading with his eyes that she might recognize him.
"Yisselda . . ."
The Mad God chuckled, grasping the bars of his cage and looking on eagerly. "Slay him, my chicken. Rip his throat."
Hawkmoon was almost weeping now as he leaped this way and that to avoid Yisselda's gleaming talons.
He called to Stalnikov. "What power is it she obeys that conquers her love for me?"
"She obeys the power of the Mad God, as I obey it," Stalnikov answered. "The Red Amulet makes all its slaves!"
"Only in the hands of an evil creature . . ."
Hawkmoon flung himself aside as Yisselda's talons ripped at him. He scrambled up and darted toward the cage.
"It turns all who wear it evil," Stalnikov replied, chuckling as Yisselda's claws ripped at Hawkmoon's sleeve. "All . . ."
"All but a servant of the Runestaff!"
The voice came from the entrance to the hall, and it belonged to the Warrior in Jet and Gold. It was sonorous and grave.
The History of the Runestaff Page 24
