The History of the Runestaff

by Michael Moorcock

  "There are a few small gates," Bewchard told Hawkmoon, "but they are rarely used. Instead they have huge underground waterways and docks. These, of course, lead directly to the river."

  Bewchard led them into a sidestreet and indicated a sign about halfway down. "There, my friends—there's our outfitter."

  They entered the shop crammed with bales of cloth, with heaps of cloaks and jerkins and britches, swords and daggers of all description, fine harness, helmets, hats, boots, belts and everything else that a man could possibly want to wear. The owner of the shop was serving another customer as they entered. The owner was a middle-aged man, well-built and genial, with a red face and pure white hair. He smiled at Bewchard and the customer turned—a youth whose eyes widened when he saw the three standing in the doorway of the shop. The youth muttered something and made to leave.

  "You do not want the sword, master?" the outfitter asked in surprise. "I would drop my price by half a smaygar, but not more."

  "Another time, Pyahr, another time," answered the youth hurriedly, bowed swiftly to Bewchard and left the shop.

  "Who was that?" asked Hawkmoon with a smile.

  "Veroneeg's son, if I remember right," Bewchard replied. He laughed. "He has inherited his father's cowardice!"

  Pyahr came up. "Good afternoon, Captain Bewchard.

  I had not expected to see you here today. You did not make the announcement?"

  "No, Pyahr, I did not."

  Pyahr smiled. "I had a feeling you wouldn't, captain. However, you are in considerable danger now.

  Valjon will have to pursue the matter, will he not?"

  "He will have to try, Pyahr."

  "He will try soon, captain. He will waste no tune. Are you sure it is wise to come so close to the walls of Starvel?"

  "I have to show that I am not afraid of Valjon,"

  Bewchard answered. "Besides, why should I change my plans for him? I promised my friends here that they could choose clothing from the finest outfitter in Narleen and I am not a man to forget a promise like that!"

  Pyahr smiled and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I wish you luck, captain. Now, gentleman, what do you see that you like?"

  Hawkmoon picked up a cloak of rich scarlet, fingering its golden clasp. "I see much that I like. You have a fine shop, Master Pyahr."

  While Bewchard chatted with the shopkeeper, Hawkmoon and D'Averc wandered slowly around the shop, picking out a shirt here and a pair of boots there.

  Two hours passed before they had finally made up their minds.

  "Why do you not go into my dressing rooms and try on the clothes?" Pyahr suggested. "I think you have chosen well, gentlemen."

  Hawkmoon and D'Averc retired into the dressing rooms. Hawkmoon had a shirt of silk in a deep laven-der shade, a jerkin of soft, light-colored brushed leather, a scarf of purple and fine, flaring britches that were also of silk and a purple that matched the scarf, which he knotted about his neck. These britches he tucked into boots of the same leather as the jerkin, which he left unbuttoned. He drew a wide leather belt about his waist and then clasped a cloak of deep blue over his shoulders.

  D'Averc had taken for himself a scarlet shut and matching britches, a jerkin of shining black leather and boots that were also of black leather and reached almost to his knees. Over this he drew a cloak of stiff silk, colored deep purple. He was reaching for his sword belt when there came a shout from the shop.

  Hawkmoon parted the curtains of the dressing room.

  The shop was suddenly full of men—evidently pirates from Starvel. They had surrounded Bewchard who had not had time to draw his sword.

  Hawkmoon wheeled and picked up his sword from the pile of discarded clothing, rushing into the shop to collide with Pyahr who was staggering back, blood pumping from his throat.

  Even now the pirates were backing out of the shop and Bewchard could not even be seen.

  Hawkmoon stabbed a pirate directly in the heart, defended himself from another's thrust.

  "Do not try to fight us," snarled the pirate who had tried to stab him, "we want only Bewchard!"

  "Then you must kill us before you take him," cried D'Averc who had joined Hawkmoon.

  "Bewchard goes to find his punishment for insulting our Lord Valjon," the pirate told him and slashed at him.

  D'Averc leapt back, bringing his sword up in a flickering movement that knocked the pirate's blade from his hand. The man snarled, hurling the dagger that was in his other hand, but D'Averc deflected this, also, thrusting out to take the man in the throat.

  Now half the pirates had detached themselves from their fellows and advanced on Hawkmoon and D'Averc who were pressed backward into the shop.

  "They're escaping with Bewchard," Hawkmoon said desperately. "We must aid him."

  He thrust savagely at his attackers, trying to cut his way through them to go to Bewchard's assistance, but then he heard D'Averc yell from behind him.

  "More of them—coming through the back exit!"

  That was the last he heard before he felt a sword hilt slam against the base of his skull and he fell forward onto a heap of shirts.

  He awoke feeling smothered and rolled over onto his back. It was getting dark inside the shop and it was strangely silent now.

  He staggered up, his sword still in his hand. The first thing he saw was Pyahr's corpse sprawled near the curtains of the dressing room.

  The second thing he saw was what seemed to be D'Averc's corpse lying stretched across the bale of orange cloth, blood covering most of his features.

  Hawkmoon went to his friend, put his hand inside his jerkin and with relief heard his heart beating. Like him, it seemed, D'Averc had only been stunned. Doubtless the pirates had left them behind intentionally, wanting someone to tell the citizens of Narleen what befell those who, like Pahl Bewchard, offended the Lord Valjon.

  Hawkmoon stumbled to the back of the shop and found a pitcher of water. He carried it back to where his friend lay and put the pitcher to D'Averc's lips, then he tore off a strip from the bale of cloth and bathed the face. The blood had come from a broad but shallow cut across the temple.

  D'Averc began to stir, opened his eyes and looked directly into Hawkmoon's.

  "Bewchard," he said. "We must rescue him, Hawkmoon."

  Hawkmoon nodded bleakly. "Aye. But he is in Starvel by now."

  "No one knows that but us," D'Averc said rising stiffly to a sitting position. "If we could rescue him and bring him back, then tell the city the story, think what that would do for the citizens' morale."

  "Very well," said Hawkmoon. "We shall pay a visit to Starvel—and pray that Bewchard still lives." He sheathed his sword. "We must climb those walls somehow, D'Averc. We shall need equipment."

  "Doubtless we'll find all we want in this shop,"

  D'Averc replied. "Come, let us move swiftly. It is already nightfall."

  Hawkmoon fingered the black jewel set in his forehead. His thoughts went again to Yisselda, to Count Brass, Oladahn and Bowgentle, wondering about their fate. His whole impulse was to forget about Bewchard, forget about Mygan's instructions, the legendary Sword of the Dawn and the equally legendary Runestaff, to steal one of the ships from the harbour and set off across the sea to try to find his beloved. But then he sighed and straightened his back. They could not leave Bewchard to his fate. They must try to rescue him or die.

  He thought of the walls of Starvel that lay so close.

  Perhaps no one had tried to scale them before, for they were very steep and doubtless well-guarded. Perhaps it could be done, however. They would have to try.

  Chapter Nine - THE TEMPLE OF BATACH GERANDIUN

  EACH WITH MORE than a score of daggers stuck in their belts, Hawkmoon and D'Averc began to scale the walls of Starvel.

  Hawkmoon went first, wrapping cloth around the hilt of a dagger and then searching for a crack in the stone into which to insert the point, tap it gently into place, praying that no one above would hear him and that the dagger would hold.
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  Slowly they ascended the wall, testing the daggers as they went. Once Hawkmoon felt a blade begin to give beneath his foot, clung to the dagger he had just inserted above his head as he felt that too begin to work loose. A hundred feet below was the street. Desperately he took another dagger from his belt and hunted for a crack in the stone, found one and plunged the blade in. It held, while the dagger supporting his foot fell away. He heard a thin clatter as it landed in the street. Now he hung, unable to move up or down, as D'Averc tried to insert another dagger into the crack.

  At last he succeeded and Hawkmoon breathed with relief. They were near the top of the wall now. Only a few more feet to go—and no idea what awaited either on the wall or beyond it.

  Perhaps their efforts were useless? Perhaps Bewchard was already dead? There was no point in thinking such thoughts now.

  Hawkmoon went even more cautiously as he reached the top. He heard a footfall above him and knew that a guard was passing. He paused in his work. Only one more dagger and he would be able to gain the top of the wall. He glanced down, saw D'Averc's face grim in the moonlight. The footfalls died away and he continued tapping in the dagger.

  Then, just as he was heaving himself upwards the footsteps came back, moving much more rapidly than before. Hawkmoon looked up—directly into the face of a startled pirate.

  Instantly Hawkmoon risked everything, sprang for the top of the wall, grasped it as the man drew his blade, flung himself upwards and struck with all his might at the man's legs.

  The pirate gasped, tried to regain his balance, and then fell soundlessly.

  Breathing rapidly, Hawkmoon reached down and helped D'Averc to the top of the wall. Running along it now came two more guards.

  Hawkmoon rose, drew his sword and prepared to meet them.

  Metal clashed on metal as D'Averc and Hawkmoon engaged the two pirates. The exchange was short, for the two companions had little time to waste and were desperate. Almost as one their blades struck for the hearts of the pirate guards, sank into flesh and were withdrawn. Almost as one the guards collapsed and lay still.

  Hawkmoon and D'Averc glanced up and down the length of the wall. It seemed that they had not yet been detected by others. Hawkmoon pointed to a stairway leading down to the ground. D'Averc nodded and they made their way toward it, descending softly and as rapidly as they dared, hoping no one would come up.

  It was dark and quiet below. It seemed a city of the dead. Far away, in the center of Starvel, a beacon gleamed, but—elsewhere all was in darkness, save for a little light that escaped from the shutters of windows or through cracks in doors.

  As they drew nearer to the ground they heard a few sounds from the houses—of coarse laughter and roistering. Once a door opened showing a crowded, drunken scene inside, and a pirate staggered drunkenly out cursing something, falling flat on his face on the cobbles.

  The door closed, the pirate did not stir.

  The buildings of Starvel were simpler than those beyond the wall. They did not have the rich decoration of Narleen and, if Hawkmoon had not known better, he would have thought that Starvel was the poorer city.

  But Bewchard had told him that the pirates only displayed their wealth on their ships, their backs and in the mysterious Temple of Batach Gerandiun where the Sword of the Dawn was said to hang.

  They crept into the streets, swords ready. Even assuming Bewchard was still alive, they had no idea where he was being held prisoner, but something drew them towards the beacon in the center of the city.

  Then, when they were quite close to the light, the sonorous boom of a drum suddenly filled the air, echoing through the dark, empty streets. Then they heard the tramp of feet, the clatter of horses' hooves nearby.

  "What's that?" hissed D'Averc. He peered cautiously around a building and then rapidly withdrew his head.

  "They're coming towards us," he said. "Get back!"

  Torchlight began to flicker and huge shadows swam into the street ahead of them. Hawkmoon and D'Averc backed away into the darkness, watching as a procession began to file past.

  It was led by Valjon himself, his pale face stark and rigid, his eyes staring straight ahead of him as he rode a black horse through the streets towards the place where the beacon burned. Behind him were drummers, beating out a slow, monotonous rhythm, and behind them another group of armed horsemen, all richly clad.

  These must be the other Lords of Starvel. Their faces, too, were set and they sat in their saddles as stiffly as statues. But it was that which came behind these pirate lords which caught the watchers' main attention.

  It was Bewchard.

  His arms and legs were stretched out on a great frame of whalebone fixed upright upon a wheeled platform drawn by six horses led by liveried pirates. He was pale and his naked body was covered in sweat. He was evidently in great pain, but his lips were pressed grimly together. On his torso strange symbols had been painted and there were similar markings on his cheeks.

  His muscles strained as he struggled to free himself from the cords biting into his ankles and wrists; but he was securely bound.

  As D'Averc made a movement to spring forward Hawkmoon restrained him. "No," he whispered. "Follow them. We might have a better chance to save him later."

  They let the rest of the procession pass and then crept after it. It moved slowly on until it entered a wide square lit by a great beacon glowing over the doorway of a tall building of strange, asymmetrical architecture which seemed to have been formed naturally out of some glassy, volcanic stuff. It was an ominous construction.

  "The Temple of Batach Gerandiun without question," Hawkmoon murmured. "I wonder why they take him there?"

  "Let us find out," D'Averc said as the procession filed into the temple.

  Together, they darted across the square and crouched in the shadows near the door. It was half-open. Apparently no attempt had been made to guard it. Perhaps the pirates believed that no one would dare enter such a place unless it was their right.

  Looking about him to see if they were observed, Hawkmoon crept toward the door and pushed it slowly open. He was in a dark passage. From round a corner came a reddish glow and the sound of chanting. D'Averc close behind him, Hawkmoon began to move down the corridor.

  Hawkmoon paused before he reached the corner. A strange smell was in his nostrils, a disgusting smell that was at once familiar and unfamiliar. He shuddered and took a step back. D'Averc's face wrinkled in nausea. "Ugh—what is it?"

  Hawkmoon shook his head. "Something about it—the smell of blood, perhaps. Yet not just blood . . ."

  D'Averc's eyes were wide as he looked at Hawkmoon. It seemed that he was about to suggest that they go no further; then he squared his shoulders and took a stronger grip on his sword. He pulled off the scarf around his throat and pressed it to nose and lips in an ostentatious gesture reminding Hawkmoon much more of D'Averc's normal self, and making him grin, but he followed D'Averc's action and unwound his own scarf and placed it to his face.

  Then they moved forward again, turning the corner of the passage.

  The light grew brighter, a rosy radiance not unlike the color of fresh blood. It emanated from a doorway at the far end of the corridor, seeming to pulse to the rhythm of the chanting which now grew louder and held a note of terrible menace. The stench, too, grew worse as they advanced.

  Once a figure crossed the space from which the pulsing radiance poured. Hawkmoon and D'Averc stood stock still but were unseen. The silhouette vanished and they continued to advance.

  Just as the stench assailed their nostrils, so the chanting began to offend their ears. There was something weirdly off-key about it, something that grated on their nerves. With their eyes half-blinded by the rosy light, it seemed that all their senses were under attack at once. But still they pressed on until they stood only a foot or two from the entrance.

  They stared and they shuddered.

  The hall was roughly circular, but with a roof whose height varied enormously. In this it resemb
led the out-ward appearance of the building, seeming to be less artificial than organic, rising and falling in a purely arbitrary way as far as Hawkmoon could tell. All the glassy walls reflected the rosy radiance so that the whole scene was stained red.

  The light came from a place high in the roof and it drew Hawkmoon's wincing gaze upward.

  He recognised it immediately, recognised the thing hanging there, dominating the hall. It was without doubt the thing that, with his dying breath, Mygan had sent him here to find.

  "The Sword of the Dawn," whispered D'Averc. "The foul thing can have no part in our destinies, surely!"

  Hawkmoon's face was grim. He shrugged. "That is not what we are here to take. He is what we have come for ..." and he pointed.

  Below the sword were stretched a dozen figures, all on the whalebone frames, arranged in a semi-circle.

  Not all the men and women on the frames were alive, but most were dying.

  D'Averc turned his face away from the sight but then, his expression one of purest horror, forced himself to look back again.

  "By the Runestaff!" he gasped. "It's barbaric!"

  Veins had been cut in the naked bodies and from those veins the lifeblood pumped slowly.

  The wretched on the bone frames were being bled to death. Those who lived had faces twisted in anguish and their struggles weakened gradually as their blood dripped, dripped into the pit below them, a pit that had been carved from the obsidian rock.

  It was a pit, too, in which things moved, rising to the surface to lap at the fresh blood as it fell, then darting down again. Dark shapes moving in the deep pool of blood.

  How deep was the pool? How many thousands had died to fill it? What peculiar properties did the pool contain so that the blood did not congeal?

  Around the pool were clustered the Pirate Lords of Starvel, chanting and swaying, their faces lifted up to the Sword of the Dawn. Immediately below the sword, his body straining on the frame, Bewchard hung.

  There was a knife in Valjon's hand and there could be no doubting the use he intended to make of it. Bewchard stared down at him with loathing and said something Hawkmoon could not hear. The knife glistened as if already wet with blood, the chanting grew louder and Valjon's hollow tones could be heard through it.