The History of the Runestaff

by Michael Moorcock

  "Aye, sire," Baron Meliadus said through gritted teeth, controlling his anger and chagrin.

  "The audience is at an end, Meliadus."

  "Thank you," said Meliadus, blood pounding in his head, "sire."

  He backed away from the Throne Globe.

  He turned on his heel and began to pace the long hall.

  He reached the jewelled doors, pushed past the guards and strode down the gleaming corridors of shifting light.

  On he marched, and on, his pace rapid and his movements stiff, his hand white on the hilt of his sword which it gripped tightly.

  He paced until he had reached the great reception hall of the palace where waited the nobles craving audience with the King Emperor; descended the steps that led to the gates opening on the outer worlds, signed for his girls to come forward with his litter, clambered into it and dumped himself heavily on its cushions, and allowed himself to be borne back to his black and silver palace.

  Now he hated his King Emperor. Now he loathed the creature who had humiliated him so, thwarted him so, insulted him so. King Huon was a fool not to realise the potential danger offered by Castle Brass. Such a fool was not fit to reign, not fit to command slaves, let alone Baron Meliadus, Grand Constable of the Order of the Wolf.

  Meliadus would not listen to King Huon's stupid orders, would do what he thought best and, if the King Emperor objected, then he would defy him.

  A little later, Meliadus left his palace on horseback.

  He rode at the head of twenty men. Twenty hand-picked men whom he could trust to follow him anywhere—even to Yel.

  Chapter Fourteen - THE WASTES OF YEL

  THE COUNTESS FLANA'S ornithopter dropped closer and closer to the ground, its belly brushing the tops of tall pines, its wings narrowly missing becoming entangled with the branches of birches, until at last it landed on the wiry heather beyond the forest.

  The day was cold and a sharp wind whistled across the heath, biting through their flimsy costumes.

  Shivering, they clambered from the flying machine and looked warily about them. No one was in sight.

  D'Averc reached into his jerkin and produced a scrap of thin leather on which a map was scrawled.

  He pointed. "We go in that direction. Now we must get the ornithopter into the woods and hide it."

  "Why cannot we leave it? The chances of anyone finding it for a day or so are slim," Hawkmoon said.

  But D'Averc spoke seriously. "I do not wish any harm to come to Countess Flana, Hawkmoon. If the machine were discovered, it could be ill for her. Come."

  And so they tugged and shoved at the metal machine until it was in the pinewood and thickly covered with brash. It had borne them as far as it could until its fuel gave out. They had not expected it to carry them the whole way to Yel.

  Now they must continue on foot.

  For four days they walked through woods and across heaths, the terrain gradually becoming less and less fertile as they neared the borders of Yel.

  Then one day Hawkmoon paused and pointed.

  "Look, D'Averc—the Mountains of Yel."

  And there they were in the distance, their purple peaks in cloud, the plain and the foothills beneath them all tawny yellow rock.

  It was a wild, beautiful landscape, such as Hawkmoon had never seen before.

  He gasped. "So there are some sights in Granbretan not entirely offensive to the eye, D'Averc."

  "Aye, it is pretty," D'Averc agreed. "But daunting also. We have to find Mygan there somewhere. Judging by the map, Llandar is still many miles into those mountains."

  "Then let us press on." Hawkmoon adjusted his sword belt. "We had a small advantage over Meliadus to begin with, but it is possible that even now he is on his way to Yel in hot quest of Mygan."

  D'Averc stood on one leg and ruefully rubbed his foot. "True, but I fear these boots will not, last the distance. I picked them from pride, for their prettiness, not for their sturdiness. I am learning my mistake."

  Hawkmoon clapped him on the shoulder. "I've heard wild ponies roam these parts. Pray we find a couple we can tame."

  But no wild ponies could be found and the yellow ground was hard and rocky and the sky above became full of a livid radiance. Hawkmoon and D'Averc began to realise why the folk of Granbretan were so superstitious of this region, for there did seem to be something unnatural about both land and sky.

  At last the mountains were entered.

  Seen close to, these were also of a yellowish color, though with streaks of dark red and green, all glassy and grim. Strange-looking beasts skittered away from their path as they clambered on over jagged rocks and peculiar man-like creatures, with hairy bodies topped by completely hairless heads, measuring less than a foot high, regarded them from cover.

  "They were once men, those creatures," D'Averc said. "Their ancestors dwelt in these parts. But the Tragic Millenium did its work here well."

  "How do you know this?" Hawkmoon asked him.

  "I have read my books. It was in Yel, worse than any other part of Granbretan, that the Tragic Millennium's effects were felt. That is why it is so desolate, for people will not come here any longer."

  "Save Tozer—and the old man, Mygan of Llandar."

  "Aye—if Tozer spoke the truth. We could still be on a wild goose chase, Hawkmoon."

  "But Meliadus had the same story."

  "Perhaps Tozer is merely a consistent liar?"

  It was close to nightfall when the mountain creatures came scuttling from their caves high above and attacked Hawkmoon and D'Averc.

  They were covered in oily fur, with the beaks of birds and the claws of cats, huge eyes blazing, beaks parting to reveal teeth, emitting a horrible hissing sound. There were three females and about six males as far as they could tell In the semi-darkness.

  Hawkmoon drew his sword, adjusting his vulture mask as he would adjust an ordinary helm, and set his back to a wall of rock.

  D'Averc took up a position beside him. Then the beasts were on them.

  Hawkmoon slashed at the first, carving a long, bloody scar across its chest. It recoiled with a shriek.

  A second was taken by D'Averc, stabbed through the heart. Hawkmoon neatly slit the throat of a third, but a fourth's claws were gripping his left arm. He struggled, muscles straining as he tried to turn his dagger upward to stab the creature's wrist, while meanwhile he slashed at one trying to take him from the other side.

  Hawkmoon coughed and felt nauseous, for the beasts stank horribly. He at last wrenched his hand round and dug the point of his dagger into its forearm. It grunted and let go.

  Instantly Hawkmoon drove the blade of the dagger deep into one staring eye and left the weapon there as he turned to deal with the next creature.

  It was dark now and hard to make out how many of the beasts were left. D'Averc was holding his own, shouting filthy insults at the creatures as his blade moved rapidly this way and that.

  Hawkmoon's foot slipped on blood and he staggered, catching the small of his back on a spur of rock. With a hiss another beaked beast was on him, clutching him in a bearlike grip, pinning both arms to his sides, the beak snapping at his face and closing with a snap on the vulture visor.

  Hawkmoon sweated to break the grip, tore his head from the mask, leaving it in the creature's beak, wrenched the thing's arms apart and punched it heavily in the chest. It staggered in surprise, not realising that the vulture mask had not been part of Hawkmoon's body.

  Quickly Hawkmoon drove Ms sword into its heart and turned to assist D'Averc, who had two of the things on him.

  Hawkmoon lopped one's head completely from its shoulders and was about to attack the next when it released D'Averc and screamed, rushing off into the night, clutching part of his jerkin.

  They had accounted for all but one of their disgusting attackers.

  D'Averc was panting, wounded slightly in the chest where the claws had ripped his jerkin away. Hawkmoon ripped up a piece of his cloak and padded the wound.

  "No grea
t harm done," said D'Averc. He yanked off his battered vulture mask and flung it away. "Those came in useful, but I'll wear mine no longer since I see you've discarded yours. That jewel in your forehead is unmistakable, so there's no point in my continuing to disguise myself!" He grinned. "I told you the Tragic Millenium had produced some ugly creatures, friend Hawkmoon."

  "I believe you," smiled Hawkmoon. "Come, we had best find a place to camp for the night. Tozer marked a safe resting spot on his map. Bring it out into the star-light so we can read it."

  D'Averc reached into his jerkin and then his jaw dropped in horror. "Oh, Hawkmoon! We are not so lucky!"

  "Why so, my friend?"

  "That section of my jerkin the creature carried off contained the pocket in which I had the map supplied by Tozer. We are lost, Hawkmoon!"

  Hawkmoon cursed, sheathed his sword and frowned.

  "There's nothing for it," he said. "We must trail the beast. It was slightly wounded and might have left a trail of blood. Perhaps it has dropped the map on its way back to its lair. Failing that we shall have to follow it all the way to where it lives and find a means of getting back our map when we arrive!"

  D'Averc frowned. "Is it worth it? Can we not remember where we are bound?"

  "Not well enough. Come, D'Averc."

  Hawkmoon began to clamber over the sharp rocks in the direction in which the creature had disappeared and D'Averc came reluctantly after him.

  Luckily the sky was clear and the moon bright and Hawkmoon at last saw some gleaming patches on the rocks that must have been blood. A bit further on he saw more patches.

  "This way, D'Averc," he called.

  His Mend sighed, shrugged and followed.

  The search went on until dawn, when Hawkmoon lost the trail and shook his head. They were high up on a mountain slope, with a good view of two valleys below them. He ran his hand through his blond hair and he sighed.

  "No sign of the thing. And yet I was sure..."

  "Now we are worse off," D'Averc said absently, rubbing his weary eyes. "No map—and no longer, even, on our original trail..."

  "I am sorry, D'Averc. I thought it the best plan."

  Hawkmoon's shoulders sagged. Then suddenly he brightened and pointed.

  "There! I saw something moving. Come on." And he was sprinting along the shelf of rock to disappear from D'Averc's sight.

  D'Averc heard a shout of surprise and then a sudden silence.

  The Frenchman drew his sword and followed after his friend, wondering what he had met with.

  Then he saw the source of Hawkmoon's amaze-ment. There, far below in a valley, was a city all made of metal, with shiny surfaces of red, gold, orange, blue and green, with curving metal roadways and sharp metal towers. It was plain to see, even from here, that the city was deserted and falling to pieces, with rusting walls and adornments.

  Hawkmoon stood looking down at it. He pointed.

  There was their remaining antagonist of the night before, sliding down the rocky sides of the mountain toward the city.

  "That must be where he lives," Hawkmoon said.

  "I like not to follow him down there," D'Averc murmured. "There could be poison air—the air that makes your flesh crumple from your face, that causes vomiting and death..."

  "The poison air does not exist any more, D'Averc, and you know it. It only lasts for a while and then disappears. Surely there has been no poison air here for centuries." He began to clamber down the mountain in pursuit of his foe who still clutched the piece of jerkin containing Tozer's map.

  "Oh, very well," groaned D'Averc. "Let's seek death together!" And once again he began to follow in his friend's wake. "You are a wild, impatient gentleman, Duke von Koln!"

  While loose stones rattled down and made the creature they pursued run all the faster towards the city, Hawkmoon and D'Averc gave chase as best they could, for they were unused to mountainous terrain and D'Averc's boots were almost in shreds.

  They saw the beast enter the shadows of the metal city and disappear.

  A few moments later they, too, had reached the city and looked up, in some trepidation, at the huge metal structures that loomed into the sky, creating menacing shadows below.

  Hawkmoon noticed some more bloodstains and threaded his way between the struts and pylons of the city, peering with difficulty in the murky light.

  And then suddenly there was a clicking sound, a hissing sound, a peculiar land of subdued growl—and the creature was upon him, its claws about his throat, digging deeper and deeper. He felt one pierce, then another. He whipped up his own hands and tried to prise the clawed fingers away, felt the beak snap at the back of his neck.

  Then there was a wild shriek and a yell and the claws released his throat.

  Hawkmoon staggered round to see D'Averc, sword in hand, looking down at the body of the beaked beast.

  "The disgusting creature had no brains," said D'Averc lightly. "What a fool it was to attack you and leave me free to slay it from behind." He extended his arm and delicately skewered the missing piece of cloth that had fallen from the dead thing's claw. "Here's our map, as good as ever!"

  Hawkmoon wiped blood from his throat. The claws had not pierced too deeply. "The poor thing," he said.

  "No softness now, Hawkmoon! You know how it alarms me to hear you speaking thus. Remember the creatures attacked us."

  "I wonder why. There should be no shortage of their natural prey in these mountains—there are all kinds of edible creatures. Why feast on us?"

  "Either we were the nearest meat they saw,"

  D'Averc suggested, looking about him at the lattice of metal everywhere, "or else they have learned to hate men."

  D'Averc resheathed his sword with a flourish and began to make his way through the forest of metal struts that supported the towers and streets of the city above them. Refuse lay everywhere and there were bits of dead animals, offal; rotting, unidentifiable stuff.

  "Let's explore this city while we're here," D'Averc said, climbing up one girder. "We could sleep here."

  Hawkmoon consulted the map. "It's marked," he said. "Halapandur's its name. Not too far to the east of where our mysterious philosopher has his cavern."

  "How far?"

  "About a day's march in these mountains."

  "Let's rest here and press on tomorrow," D'Averc suggested.

  Hawkmoon frowned for a moment. Then he shrugged.

  "Very well." He, too, began to clamber up through the girders until they reached one of the strange, curving metal streets.

  "We'll strike out for yonder tower," suggested D'Averc.

  They began to walk along the gently sloping ramp towards a tower that gleamed turquoise and sultry scarlet in the sunshine.

  Chapter Fifteen - THE DESERTED CAVERN

  AT THE BASE of the tower was a small door that had been driven inwards as if by the punching of a giant fist. Clambering through the aperture, Hawkmoon and D'Averc tried to peer through the gloom to see what the tower contained.

  "There," said Hawkmoon. "A stairway—or something very like one."

  They stumbled over rubble and discovered that it was not a stairway leading up into the higher parts of the tower, but a ramp, not unlike the ramps that connected one building to another in the city itself.

  "From what I've read this place was built only shortly before the Tragic Millenium," D'Averc told Hawkmoon as they continued up the ramp. "It was a city wholly given over to scientists—a Research City, I believe they called it. Every kind of scientist came here from all parts of the world. The idea was that new discoveries would be made by cross-fertilisation.

  If my memory serves me, the legends say that many strange inventions were created here, though most of their secrets are now completely lost."

  Up they went until the ramp led them onto a wide platform which was completely surrounded by windows of glass. Most of the windows were cracked or completely blown out, but from this platform it was possible to see the whole of the rest of the city.
>
  "Almost certainly this was used to view the goings off all over Halapandur," Hawkmoon said. He looked about him. Everywhere were the remains of instruments whose function he could not recognize. They bore the stamp of things prehistoric; all in dull, plain cases with austere characters engraved on them, totally unlike the baroque decoration and flowing numerals and letters of modern times. "Some sort of room controlling the functions of the rest of Halapandur."

  D'Averc pursed his lips and pointed. "Ay—you can observe its uses at once. Look, Hawkmoon."

  Some distance away, on the opposite side of the city from the one they had entered, could be seen a line of horsemen in the helmets and armour of Dark Empire troops. They could make out no details from this height.

  "My guess is that Meliadus leads them," Hawkmoon said, fingering his sword. "He cannot know exactly where Mygan is, but he can have discovered that Tozer was in this city at some time, and he'll have trackers with him who'll soon discover Mygan's cave.

  We cannot afford to rest here now, D'Averc. We must press on at once."

  D'Averc nodded. "A shame." He stooped and picked up a small object he had seen on the floor, placing it in his tattered jerkin. "I think I recognise this."

  "What is it?"

  "It could be one of the charges used for the old guns they used," D'Averc said. "If so, it will be useful."

  "But you have no old gun!"

  "One does not always need one!" said D'Averc mysteriously.

  They ran back down the ramp to the entrance of the tower. Risking being seen by the Dark Empire warriors, they dashed along the large, outer ramps as fast as they could, then swung back again down the girders and out of sight.

  "I don't think we were seen," D'Averc said. "Come on—we go this way for Mygan's lair."

  They began to race up the side of the mountain, slithering and sliding in their anxiety to reach the old sorcerer before Meliadus.

  Night came, but they moved on.

  They were starving, for they had eaten practically nothing since they had set out for Llandar Valley, and they were beginning to weaken.