The History of the Runestaff

by Michael Moorcock

  Chapter Two - THE FLAMINGOES DANCE

  AT DAWN, WHEN clouds of giant scarlet flamingoes rose from their nests of reeds and wheeled through the sky in bizarre ritual dances, Count Brass would stand on the edge of the marsh and stare over the water at the strange configurations of dark lagoons and tawny islands that seemed to him like hieroglyphs in some primeval language.

  The ontological revelations that might exist in these patterns had always intrigued him, and of late he had taken to studying the birds, reeds and lagoons, attempting to divine the key to this cryptic landscape.

  The landscape, he thought, was coded. In it he might find the answers to the dilemma of which even he was only half-conscious; find, perhaps, the revelation that would tell him what he needed to know of the growing threat he felt was about to engulf him both psychically and physically.

  The sun rose, brightening the water with its pale light, and Count Brass heard a sound, turned, and saw his daughter Yisselda, golden-haired madonna of the lagoons, an almost preternatural figure in her flowing blue gown, riding bareback her white horned Kamarg horse and smiling mysteriously as if she, too, knew some secret that he could never fully comprehend.

  Count Brass sought to avoid the girl by stepping out briskly along the shore, but already she was riding close to him and waving.

  "Father—you're up early! Not for the first time recently."

  Count Brass nodded, turned again to contemplate the waters and the reeds, looked up suddenly at the dancing birds as if to catch them by surprise, or by some instinctive flash of divination learn the secret of their strange, almost frenetic gyrations.

  Yisselda had dismounted and now stood beside him.

  "They are not our flamingoes," she said. "And yet they're so like them. What do you see?"

  Count Brass shrugged and smiled at her. "Nothing. Where's Hawkmoon?"

  "At the castle. He's still asleep."

  Count Brass grunted, clasping his great hands together as if in desperate prayer, listening to the beating of the heavy wings overhead. Then he relaxed and took her by the arm, guiding her along the bank of the lagoon.

  "It's beautiful," she murmured. "The sunrise."

  Count Brass made a small gesture of impatience.

  "You don't understand . . ." he began, and then paused. He knew that she would never see the landscape as he saw it. He had tried once to describe it to her, but she had lost interest quickly, had made no effort to understand the significance of the patterns he detected everywhere—in the water, the reeds, the trees, the animal life that filled this Kamarg in abundance, as it had filled the Kamarg that they had left.

  To him it was the quintessence of order, but to her it was simply pleasurable to look at—something "beautiful," to admire, in fact, for its "wildness."

  Only Bowgentle, the philosopher poet, Ms old friend, had an inkling of what he meant and even then Bowgentle believed that it reflected not on the nature of the landscape but on the particular nature of Count Brass's mind.

  "You're exhausted, disorientated," Bowgentle would say. "The ordering mechanism of the brain is working too hard, so you see a pattern to existence that, in fact, only stems from your own weariness and disturbance ..."

  Count Brass would dismiss this argument with a scowl, don his armour of brass and ride away on his own again, to the discomfort of his family and friends.

  He had spent a long while exploring this new Kamarg that was so much like his own save that there was no evidence of mankind's ever having existed here.

  "He is a man of action, like myself," Dorian Hawkmoon, Yisselda's husband, would say. "His mind turns inward, I fear, for want of some real problem with which to engage itself."

  "The real problems seem insoluble," Bowgentle would reply, and the conversation would end as Hawkmoon, too, went off by himself, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  There was tension in Castle Brass, and even in the village below, the folk were troubled, glad of their escape from the terror of the Dark Empire, but not sure that they were permanently settled in this new land so like the one they had left. At first, when they had arrived, the land had seemed a transformed version of the Kamarg, its colors those of the rainbow, but gradually those colors had changed to more natural ones, as if their memories had imposed themselves on the landscape, so that now there was little difference. There were herds of horned horses and white bulls to tame, scarlet flamingoes that might be trained to bear riders, but at the back of the villagers' minds was always the threat of the Dark Empire somehow finding a way through even to this retreat.

  To Hawkmoon and Count Brass—perhaps to D'Averc, Bowgentle and Oladahn, too—the idea was not so threatening. There were times when they would have welcomed an assault from the world they had left.

  While Count Brass studied the landscape and sought to divine its secrets, Dorian Hawkmoon would ride at speed along the lagoon trails, scattering herds of bulls and horses, sending the flamingoes flapping into the sky, looking for an enemy.

  One day, as he rode back on a steaming horse from one of his many journeys of exploration along the shores of the violet sea (sea and terrain seemed without limit), he saw the flamingoes wheeling in the sky, spiraling upwards on the air currents and then drifting down again. It was afternoon and the flamingo dance took place only at dawn. The giant birds seemed disturbed and Hawkmoon decided to investigate.

  He spurred his horse along the winding path through the marsh until he was directly below the flamingoes, saw that they wheeled above a small island covered in tall reeds. He peered intently at the island and thought that he glimpsed something among the reeds, a flash of red that could be a man's coat.

  At first Hawkmoon decided that it was probably a villager snaring duck, but then he realized that if that had been so the man would have hailed him—at least waved him away to ensure he would not disturb the fowl.

  Puzzled, Hawkmoon spurred his horse into the water, swimming it across to the island and on to the marshy ground. The animal's powerful body pushed back the tough reeds as it moved and again Hawkmoon saw a flash of red, became convinced that he had seen a man.

  "Ho!" he cried. "Who's there!"

  He received no answer. Instead the reeds became more agitated as the man began to run through them without caution.

  "Who are you?" Hawkmoon cried, and it came to him then that the Dark Empire had broken through at last, that there were men hidden everywhere in the reeds ready to attack Castle Brass.

  He thundered through the reeds in pursuit of the red-jerkined man, saw him clearly now as he flung himself into the lagoon and began to swim for the bank.

  "Stop!" Hawkmoon called, but the man swam on.

  Hawkmoon's horse plunged again into the water and it foamed white. The man was already wading onto the opposite bank, glanced back to see that Hawkmoon was almost upon him, turned right round and drew a bright, slender sword of extraordinary length.

  But it was not the sword that astonished Hawkmoon most—it was the impression that the man had no face!

  The whole of the head beneath the long, fair, dirty hair was blank. Hawkmoon gasped, drawing his own sword.

  Was it some alien inhabitant of this world?

  Hawkmoon swung himself from his saddle, sword ready, as the horse clambered onto the bank, stood legs astraddle facing his strange antagonist, laughed suddenly as he realized the truth. The man was wearing a mask of light leather. The mouth and eye slits were very thin and could not be distinguished at a distance.

  "Why do you laugh?" the masked man asked in a braying voice, his sword on guard. "You should not laugh, my friend, for you are about to die."

  "Who are you?" Hawkmoon asked. "I know you for a boaster only."

  "I am a greater swordsman than you," replied the man. "You had best surrender now."

  "I regret I can't accept your word on the quality of my swordsmanship or your own," Hawkmoon replied with a smile. "How is it that such a master of the blade is so poorly attired, for instance?"
/>   With his sword he indicated the man's patched red jerkin, his trousers and boots of cracked leather. Even his bright sword had no scabbard, but had been drawn from a loop of cord attached to a rope belt on which also dangled a purse that bulged. On the man's fingers were rings of obvious glass and paste and the flesh of his skin looked grey and unhealthy. The body was tall but stringy, half-starved by the look of it.

  "A beggar, I'd guess," mocked Hawkmoon. "Where did you steal the sword, beggar?"

  He gasped as the man thrust suddenly, then withdrew. The movement had been incredibly rapid and Hawkmoon felt a sting on his cheek, put up his hand to his face and discovered that it bled.

  "Shall I prick you thus to death?" sneered the stranger. "Put down your heavy sword and make yourself my prisoner."

  Hawkmoon laughed with real pleasure. "Good! A worthy opponent after all. You do not know how much I welcome you, my friend. It has been too long since I heard the ring of steel in my ears!" And with that he lunged at the masked man.

  His adversary deftly defended himself with a parry that somehow became a thrust which Hawkmoon barely managed to block in time. Feet planted firmly in the marshy ground, neither moved an inch from his position, both fought skillfully and unheatedly, each recognising in the other a true master of the sword.

  They fought for an hour, absolutely matched, neither giving nor sustaining a wound, and Hawkmoon decided on different tactics, began gradually to shift back down the bank towards the water.

  Thinking that Hawkmoon was retreating, the masked man seemed to gam confidence and his sword moved even more rapidly than before so that Hawkmoon was forced to exert all his energy to deflect it.

  Then Hawkmoon pretended to slip in the mud, going down on one knee. The other sprang forward to thrust and Hawkmoon's blade moved rapidly, the flat striking the man's wrist. He yelled and the sword fell from his hand. Quickly Hawkmoon jumped up and placed his boot upon the weapon, his blade at the other's throat.

  "Not a trick worthy of a true swordsman," grumbled the masked man.

  "I am easily bored," Hawkmoon replied. "I was becoming impatient with the game."

  "Well, what now?"

  "Your name?" Hawkmoon said. "I'll know that first—then see your face—then know your business here-—then, and perhaps most important, discover how you came here."

  "My name you will know," said the man with undisguised pride. "It is Elvereza Tozer."

  "I do know it, indeed!" remarked the Duke of Koln in some surprise.

  Chapter Three - ELVEREZA TOZER

  ELVEREZA TOZER was not the man Hawkmoon would have expected to meet if he had been told in advance that he was to encounter Granbretan's greatest playwright—a writer whose work was admired throughout Europe, even by those who in all other ways loathed Granbretan. The author of King Staleen, The Tragedy of Katine and Carna, The Last of the Braldurs, Annala, Chirshil and Adutf, The Comedy of Steel and many more, had not been heard of of late, but Hawkmoon had thought this due to the wars. He would have expected Tozer to have been rich in dress, confident in every way, poised and full of wit. Instead he found a man who seemed more at ease with a sword than with words, a vain man, something of a fool and a poppinjay, dressed in rags.

  As he propelled Tozer with his own sword along the marsh trails towards Castle Brass, Hawkmoon puzzled over this apparent paradox. Was the man lying? If so, why should he claim to be, of all things, an eminent playmaker?

  Tozer walked along, apparently undisturbed by his change of fortune, whistling a jaunty tune.

  Hawkmoon paused. "A moment," he said, and reached to grasp the reins of his horse, which had been following him. Tozer turned. He still wore his mask.

  Hawkmoon had been so astonished at hearing the name that he had forgotten to order Tozer to remove the leather from his face.

  "Well," Tozer said, glancing about him. "It is a love-ly country—though short in audiences, I would gather."

  "Aye," replied Hawkmoon, nonplussed. "Aye . . ."

  He gestured towards the horse. "We'll ride pillion, I think. Into the saddle with you, Master Tozer."

  Tozer swung up onto the horse and Hawkmoon followed him, taking the reins and urging the horse into a trot.

  In this manner they rode until they came to the gates of the town, passed through them, and proceeded slowly through the winding streets, up the steep road to the walls of Castle Brass.

  Dismounting in the courtyard, Hawkmoon gave the horse to a groom and indicated the door to the main hall of the castle. "Through there, if you please," he told Tozer.

  With a small shrug, Tozer sauntered through the door and bowed to the two men who stood there by the great fire which blazed in the hall. Hawkmoon nodded to them. "Good morning, Sir Bowgentle—D'Averc. I have a prisoner..."

  "So I see," D'Averc said, his gaunt, handsome features brightening a little with interest. "Are the warriors of Granbretan at our gates again?"

  "He is the only one, so far as I can judge," Hawkmoon replied. "He claims to be Elvereza Tozer ..."

  "Indeed?" The ascetic Bowgentle's quiet eyes took on a look of curiosity. "The author of Chirshil and Adulf? It is hard to believe."

  Tozer's thin hand went to the mask and tugged at the thongs securing it. "I know you, sir," he said. "We met ten years hence when I came with my play to Malaga."

  "I recall the time. We discussed some poems you had recently published and which I admired." Bowgentle shook his head. "You are Elvereza Tozer, but . . ."

  The mask came loose and revealed an emaciated, shifty face sporting a whispy beard which did not hide a weak, receding chin and which was dominated by a long, thin nose. The flesh of the face was unhealthy and bore the marks of a pox.

  "And I recall the face—though it was fuller then.

  Pray, what has happened to you, sir?" Bowgentle asked faintly. "Are you a refugee seeking escape from your countrymen?"

  "Ah," Tozer sighed, darting Bowgentle a calculating look. "Perhaps. Would you have a glass of wine, sir?

  My encounter with your military friend here has left me thirsty, I fear."

  "What?" put in D'Averc. "Have you been fighting?"

  "Fighting to kill," Hawkmoon said grimly. "I feel that Master Tozer did not come to our Kamarg on an errand of goodwill. I found him skulking in the reeds to the south. I think he comes as a spy."

  "And why should Elvereza Tozer, greatest playwright of the world, wish to spy?" The words were delivered by Tozer in a disdainful tone that yet somehow lacked conviction.

  Bowgentle bit his lip and tugged a bell rope for a servant.

  "That is for you to tell us, sir," Huillam D'Averc said with some amusement in his voice. He coughed ostentatiously. "Forgive me—a slight chill, I think. The castle is full of drafts ..."

  "And I'd wish the same for myself," Tozer said, "if a draft could be found." He looked at them expectantly.

  "A draft to help us forget the draft, if you understand me. A draft..."

  "Yes, yes," said Bowgentle hastily and turned to the servant who had entered. "A jug of wine for our guest,"

  he requested. "And would you eat, Master Tozer?"

  " 'I would eat the bread of Babel and the meat of Marakhan . . .'", Tozer said dreamily. " Tor all such fruits as fools supply are merely ...'"

  "We can offer some cheese at this hour," D'Averc interrupted sardonically.

  "Annala, Act VI, Scene V," Tozer said. "You'll remember the scene?"

  "I remember," D'Averc nodded. "I always felt that section somewhat weaker than the rest."

  "Subtler," Tozer said airily. "Subtler."

  The servant re-entered with the wine and Tozer helped himself, pouring a generous amount into the goblet. "The concerns of literature," he said, "are not always obvious to the common herd. A hundred years from now and people will see the last act of Annala not, as some stupid critics have said, as hastily written and poorly conceived, but as the complex structure it really is ..."

  "I had reckoned myself as something of a wri
ter,"

  Bowgentle said, "but I must confess, I did not see subtleties ... Perhaps you could explain."

  "Some other time," Tozer told him, with an in-souciant wave of the hand. He drank off the wine and helped himself to another full goblet.

  "In the meanwhile," Hawkmoon said firmly, "perhaps you could explain your presence in the Kamarg.

  After all, we had thought ourselves inviolate and now..."

  "You are still inviolate, never fear," Tozer said, "save to myself, of course. By the power of my brain I propelled myself hither."

  D'Averc sceptically rubbed his chin. "By the power of your—brain? How so?"

  "An ancient discipline taught me by a master philosopher who dwells in the hidden valleys of Yel . . ."

  Tozer belched and poured more wine.

  "Yel is that south western province of Granbretan is it not?" Bowgentle asked.

  "Aye. A remote, barely inhabited land, peopled by a few dark-brown barbarians who live in holes in the ground. After my play Chirshil and Adulf had in-curred the displeasure of certain elements at Court, I deemed it wise to retire there for a while, leaving my enemies to take for themselves all goods, monies, and mistresses I left behind. What know I of petty politics? How was I to realize that certain portions of the play seemed to reflect the intrigues then current at the Court?"

  "So you were disgraced?" Hawkmoon said, looking narrowly at Tozer. The story could be part of the man's deception.

  "More—I almost lost my life. But the rural existence near killed me as it was ..."

  "You met this philosopher who taught you how to travel through the dimensions? Then you came here seeking refuge?" Hawkmoon studied Tozer's reaction to these questions.

  "No—ah, yes . . ." said the playwright. "That is to say, I did not know exactly where I was coming . . ."

  "I think that you were sent here by the King-Emperor to destroy us," Hawkmoon said. "I think, Master Tozer, that you are lying to us."

  "Lying? What is a lie? What is truth?" Tozer grinned glassily up at Hawkmoon and then hiccupped.