The History of the Runestaff

by Michael Moorcock

  "Help me," said Hawkmoon.

  "I cannot," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold, standing motionless, his huge blade point down on the floor before him, his gauntleted hands resting on the pommel.

  Now Hawkmoon stumbled and felt Yisselda's claws digging into his back. He lifted his hands to grab her wrists and yelled in pain as the spikes sank into his palms, but he managed to free himself of the talons and fling her away and dash for the cage where the Mad God gibbered in delight.

  Hawkmoon leaped for the bars, kicking at Stalnikov as he did so. The cage swung erratically and began to spin. Yisselda danced below, trying to reach him with her talons.

  Stalnikov had withdrawn to the opposite side of the cage, his mad eyes now full of terror, and Hawkmoon managed to drag open the door and fling himself in, pulling it shut behind him. Outside, Yisselda howled in frustrated bloodlust, the light from the amulet turning her eyes scarlet.

  Now Hawkmoon wept openly as he darted a glance at the woman he loved; then he turned his hatefilled face on the Mad God.

  Stalnikov's deep voice, still mournful, reverberated through the hall. He fingered the amulet, directing its light into Hawkmoon's eyes. "Back, mortal. Obey me—obey the power of the amulet. . . ."

  Hawkmoon blinked, feeling suddenly weak. His eyes became fixed on the glowing amulet, and he paused, feeling the power of the thing engulf him.

  "Now," said Stalnikov. "Now, you will deliver yourself up to your destroyer."

  But Hawkmoon rallied all his determination and took a step forward. The Mad God's bearded, chin dropped in astonishment. "I command you in the name of the Red Amulet . . ."

  From the doorway came the sonorous voice of the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "He is the one whom the amulet cannot control. The only one. He is the rightful wearer."

  Stalnikov trembled and began to edge around the cage as Hawkmoon, still weak, moved determinedly on.

  "Back!" screamed the Mad God. "Leave the cage!"

  Below, Yisselda's taloned fingers had grasped the bars and she was hauling her metal studded body up, her eyes still fixed murderously on Hawkmoon's throat.

  "Back!" This time Stalnikov's voice lost some of its force and confidence. He reached the door of the cage and kicked it open.

  Yisselda, her white teeth bared, her beautiful face twisted in terrifying madness, had hauled herself up now so that she clung to the outside of the cage. The Mad God's back was toward her, the Red Amulet directed still into Hawkmoon's eyes.

  Yisselda's claw darted out, slashing at the back of Stalnikov's head. He screamed and leaped to the floor.

  Now Yisselda saw Hawkmoon again and made to enter the cage.

  Hawkmoon knew there was no time to try to reason with his maddened betrothed. He gathered all his strength and dived past her slashing claw, to land on the uneven flagstones of the floor and lie there for a moment, winded.

  Painfully he picked himself up as Yisselda, too, leaped groundward.

  The Mad God had scrambled to the great seat opposite the cage, climbing up its back to perch there, the Red Amulet dangling from his neck, casting its strange light again on Hawkmoon's face. Blood streamed down his shoulders from the wound Yisselda's clawed hands had inflicted.

  Stalnikov gibbered in terror as Hawkmoon reached the seat and climbed up onto its arm. "I beg you, leave me ... I'll do you no harm."

  "You've done me much harm already," Hawkmoon said grimly, drawing his blade. "Much harm. Enough to make revenge taste very sweet, Mad God. . . ."

  Stalnikov crept as high as he could. He shouted at the girl. "Yisselda—stop! Resume your former character. I command you, by the power of the Red Amulet!"

  Hawkmoon turned and saw that Yisselda had paused, looking bemused. Her lips parted in horror as she stared at the things on her hands, the metal spikes that covered her body. "What has happened? What has been done to me?"

  "You were hypnotized by this monster here,"

  Hawkmoon rasped, waving his sword in the cringing Stalnikov's direction. "But I will avenge the wrongs he has done you."

  "No," Stalnikov screamed. "It is not fair!"

  Yisselda burst into tears.

  Stalnikov looked this way and that. "Where are my minions—where my warriors?"

  "You made them destroy one another for your own perverted sport," Hawkmoon told him. "And those not slain, we captured."

  "My army of women! I wanted beauty to conquer all Ukrania. Get me back the Stalnikov inheritance ..."

  "That inheritance is here," said Hawkmoon, raising his sword.

  Stalnikov leaped from the back of the chair and began to run toward the door but swerved aside as he saw that it was blocked by the Warrior in Jet and Gold.

  He scuttled into the darkness of the hall, into a cranny where he disappeared from sight.

  Hawkmoon got down from the chair and turned to look at Yisselda, who lay in a heap on the floor weeping. He went to her and gently removed the bloodstained talons from her slim, soft fingers.

  She looked up. "Oh, Dorian. How did you find me? Oh, my love . . ."

  "Thank the Runestaff," said the voice of the Warrior in Jet and Gold.

  Hawkmoon turned, laughing in relief. "You are persistent in your claims, at least, Warrior."

  The Warrior in Jet and Gold said nothing but stood like a statue, faceless and tall, by the doorway.

  Hawkmoon found the fastenings of the grim, spiked suit and began to strip it off the girl.

  "Find the Mad God," said the Warrior. "Remember, the Red Amulet is yours. It will give you power."

  Hawkmoon frowned. "And turn me mad, perhaps?"

  "No, fool, it is yours by right."

  Hawkmoon paused, impressed by the Warrior's tone. Yisselda touched his hand. "I can do the rest," she said.

  Hawkmoon hefted his sword and peered into the darkness wherein Stalnikov, the Mad God, had disappeared.

  "Stalnikov!"

  Somewhere in the deepest recesses of the hall a tiny spot of red light gleamed. Hawkmoon ducked his head and entered the alcove. He heard a sobbing sound. It filled his ears.

  Closer and closer crept Hawkmoon to the source of the red brilliance. Greater and greater became the sound of the strange weeping. Then at last the red glow burned very bright, and by its light he saw the wearer of the amulet, standing against a wall of rough hewn stone, a sword in his hand.

  "For thirty years I have waited for you, German,"

  Stalnikov said suddenly, his voice calming. "I knew you must come to ruin my plans, to destroy my ideals, to demolish all I have worked for. Yet I hoped to avert the threat. Perhaps I still can."

  With a great scream, he raised the sword and swung it at Hawkmoon.

  Hawkmoon blocked the blow easily, turned the blade so that it spun from the Mad God's grasp, brought his own sword forward so that it was presented at Stalnikov's heart.

  For a moment Hawkmoon looked gravely and broodingly at the frightened madman. The light from the Red Amulet stained both their faces scarlet.

  Stalnikov cleared his throat as if to plead; then his shoulders sagged.

  Hawkmoon drove the point of his blade into the Mad God's heart. Then he turned on his heel and left both corpse and Red Amulet where they lay.

  Chapter Four - THE POWER OF THE AMULET

  HAWKMOON DREW HIS cloak about Yisselda's naked shoulders. The girl was shivering, sobbing with reaction mixed with joy at seeing Hawkmoon. Nearby stood the Warrior in Jet and Gold, still motionless.

  While Hawkmoon embraced Yisselda, the warrior began to move, his huge body crossing the hall and entering the darkness where lay the body of Stalnikov, the Mad God.

  "Oh, Dorian, I cannot tell you the horrors I have been through these past months. Captured by this group and that, traveling for hundreds of miles. I do not even know where this hellish place is. I have no memory of recent days, save for a faint remembrance of some nightmare where I struggled with myself against a desire to slay you. . . ."

  Hawkmoon hugged her to him. "A nigh
tmare was all it was. Come, we will leave. We will return to the Kamarg and safety. Tell me, what has become of your father and the others?"

  Her eyes widened. "Did you not know? I had thought you returned there first before coming to seek me."

  "I have heard nothing but rumors. How are Bowgentle, von Villach, Count Brass . . .?"

  She lowered her gaze. "Von Villach was killed by a flamelance in a battle with Dark Empire troops on the northern borders. Count Brass ..."

  "What is it?"

  "When I last saw him, my father lay on a sickbed, and even Bowgentle's healing powers seemed incapable of raising him to health. It is as if he had lost all feelings—as if he no longer wished to live. He said the Kamarg must soon fall—he believed you dead when you did not return in the time necessary to have told him you were safe."

  Hawkmoon's eyes blazed. "I must get back to the Kamarg posthaste—if only to give Count Brass the will again to live. With you gone, he can barely have sustained any kind of energy."

  "If he lives at all," she said softly, not wanting to admit the possibility.

  "He must live. If the Kamarg still stands, then Count Brass lives."

  From the passage beyond the hall came the sound of running, booted feet. Hawkmoon pushed Yisselda behind him and again drew his great battle blade.

  The door was flung open, and Oladahn stood there panting, D'Averc not far behind.

  "Dark Empire warriors," Oladahn said. "More of them than we could fight. They must be exploring the castle and surrounds for survivors and booty."

  D'Averc pushed past the little beastman. "I tried to reason with them—claimed that I had the right to command them, being of greater rank than their leader, but"—he shrugged—"it seems D'Averc has no rank in the legions of Granbretan any more. The damned pilot of the ornithopter lived long enough to tell a search party of my clumsiness in letting you escape. I am as much an outlaw, now, as you. . . ."

  Hawkmoon frowned. "Come in, both, and bar that great door. It should hold them if they attack."

  "Is it the only exit?" D'Averc asked, appraising the door.

  "I think so," Hawkmoon said, "but we must worry about that score later."

  From the shadows, the Warrior in Jet and Gold reemerged. In one gloved hand the Red Amulet dangled from its cord. The cord was stained with blood.

  The Warrior handled it gingerly, not touching the stone itself, and stretched it out toward Hawkmoon as D'Averc and Oladahn hurried to swing the door shut and bar it.

  "Here," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "It is yours."

  Hawkmoon recoiled. "I do not want it—will not have it. It is an evil thing. It has caused many to die, others to go mad—even that poor creature Stalnikov was its victim. Keep it. Find another fool enough to wear it!"

  "You must wear it," came the voice from the helm.

  "Only you may wear it."

  "I will not!" Hawkmoon swept out his hand to point to Yisselda. "That thing drove this gentle girl to become a slavering, killing beast. All those we saw in the fisherfolk's village—all slain by the power of the Red Amulet. All those who came against us—turned insane by its power. All those who died in the courtyard—destroyed by the Red Amulet." He struck the thing from the Warrior's hand. "I will not take it.

  If that is what the Runestaff creates, I will have no part of it.!"

  "It is what men—fools like yourself—do with it, that makes it corrupt in its influence," the Warrior in Jet and Gold said, his voice still grave and impassive. "It is your duty—as the Runestaff's chosen servant—to take the gift. It will not harm you. It will bring you nothing but power."

  "Power to destroy and turn men mad!"

  "Power to do good—power to fight the hordes of the Dark Empire!"

  Hawkmoon sneered. There came a great crash on the door, and he knew that the warriors of Granbretan had found them. "We are outnumbered," said Hawkmoon. "Will the Red Amulet give us the power to escape them when there is only one way out through yonder door?"

  "It will help you," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold, leaning down to retrieve the fallen amulet, again picking it up by its string.

  The door creaked under the pressure of the blows from those on the other side.

  "If the Red Amulet can do so much good," Hawkmoon said, "why do you not touch it yourself?"

  "It is not mine to touch. It could do to me what it did to the miserable Stalnikov." The warrior moved forward. "Here, take it. It is why you came here."

  "It is because of Yisselda I came here—to rescue her. I have done that."

  "It is why she came here."

  "So it was a trick to lure me . . .?"

  "No. It was part of the pattern. But you say you came to save her, and yet you refuse the means of escaping with her safely from this castle. Once those warriors break in, a score or more of fierce fighters, they will destroy you all. And Yisselda's fate might be worse than yours. . . ."

  Now the door was splitting. Oladahn and D'Averc backed away, swords ready, a look of quiet desperation in their eyes.

  "Another moment and they will be in here," said D'Averc. "Farewell, Oladahn—and you, too, Hawkmoon. You were less boring companions than some . . ."

  Hawkmoon eyed the amulet. "I do not know . . ."

  "Trust my word," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "I have saved you in the past. Would I have done so merely to destroy you now?"

  "Destroy me, no—but this will put me in some evil power. How do I know you are a messenger for the Runestaff? I have only your word that I serve it and not some darker cause."

  "The door is breaking down!" Oladahn yelled.

  "Duke Dorian, we'll need your aid! Let the warrior escape with Yisselda if he can!"

  "Quick," said the Warrior, extending the amulet again to Hawkmoon. "Take it and save the maid, at least."

  For an instant, Hawkmoon hesitated; then he accepted the thing. It settled into his hand like a pet in the hand of its master—but an exceedingly powerful pet. Its red light seemed to grow in intensity until it appeared to flood the great, grotesquely proportioned chamber. Hawkmoon felt the power flood into him.

  His whole body became full of a great sense of wellbeing. When he moved it was with great speed. His brain seemed no longer clouded by the events of the past day. He smiled and placed the bloodstained thong about his neck, bent to kiss Yisselda once and felt a delicious sensation rush through him, turned, sword ready, to face the howling horde that had by now all but demolished the great door.

  Then the door fell inward, and there stood crouched the panting dogs of Granbretan, tiger masks gleaming with enameled metal and semiprecious jewels, weapons poised to butcher the pathetic seeming little group that awaited them.

  The leader stepped forward.

  "So much exercise for so few. Brothers, we'll make them pay for our efforts."

  And then the killing began.

  Chapter Five - THE SLAUGHTER IN THE HALL

  "OH, BY THE Runestaff," murmured Hawkmoon thickly, "the power in me!"

  Then he sprang forward, great battle blade howling through the air to snap the enmetaled neck of the leading warrior, slash backhanded at the man to his left and send him reeling, swing around and cut through the armor of the man to his right.

  Suddenly there were blood and twisted metal everywhere. The light from the amulet spread scarlet shadows across the masked faces of the warriors as Hawkmoon led his comrades forward in an attackthe last thing the Dark Empire soldiers had expected.

  But the amulet's light dazzled them, and they lifted armorclumsy arms to shield their eyes, weapons held defensively, bewildered by the speed with which Hawkmoon, Oladahn, and D'Averc moved against them. Following the other three came the Warrior in Jet and Gold, his own huge broadsword whistling in a circle of steel death, all his movements apparently effortless.

  There were a clattering and a shouting from the men of Granbretan as, with Yisselda behind them at all times, the four drove them into the hall.

  Hawkmoon was at
tacked by some six swearing axmen who tried to press in against him and stop him from wielding his deadly sword, but the young Duke of Koln kicked out at one, elbowed another aside, and brought his blade straight down into the mask

  helmet of another splitting both helm and skull so that brains oozed through the fissure when he'd tugged his sword free. The sword became rapidly blunted with so much work, until at last he was using it more as an ax than anything else. He wrenched a fresh sword from the hand of one of his attackers but kept his own. With the new sword he thrust, with the old he hacked.

  "Ah," whispered Hawkmoon. "The Red Amulet is worth its price." It swung at his neck, turning his sweating, vengeful face into a red demon's mask.

  Now the last of the warriors tried to flee for the door, but the Warrior in Jet and Gold and D'Averc blocked them, hacking them down as they tried to burst past.

  Somewhere, Hawkmoon caught a glimpse of Yisselda. Her face was buried in her hands as she refused to witness the red ruin Hawkmoon and his friends had created. "Oh, it is sweet to slay these carrion,"

  Hawkmoon said. "Do not refuse to look, Yisselda—this is our triumph!" But the girl did not look up.

  In many parts of the hall the floors were heaped with the twisted corpses of the slaughtered. Hawkmoon panted, seeking more to slay, but there were none left. He dropped the borrowed blade, sheathed his own, the battle lust leaving him completely. He frowned down at the Red Amulet, raising it up to regard it more closely, studying the simple motif of a runecarved staff that had been cut from it.

  "So," he murmured. "Your first help is in aiding me to kill. I'm grateful, but I wonder, still, if you're not a force more for evil than for good. . . ." The light from the Runestaff flickered and began to fade.

  Hawkmoon looked up at the Warrior in Jet and Gold.

  "The amulet's dulled—what means that?"

  "Nothing," said the Warrior. "It draws its power from a great distance off and cannot sustain it at all times. It will grow bright again eventually." He paused, cocking his head toward the passage. "I hear more footsteps—the warriors were not the whole force."