"Maybe. Now that the sea is calm, there's little chance of her breaking up. But it will take time." Hawkmoon fingered the dull, black stone in his forehead. "Come, D'Averc, let's explore inland."
They began to climb up over the rocks, heading up the slope to the summit of the island. The place seemed completely devoid of life. The best they could hope to find would be pools of fresh water and there might be shellfish on the shore. It was a bleak place. Their hopes of survival, if the ship could not be refloated, seemed very slight, particularly with the prospect of the monsters returning.
They reached the summit at last and paused, breathing heavily from their exertions.
"The other side's as barren as this," D'Averc said, gesturing downward. "I wonder . . ." He broke off and gasped. "By the Eyes of Berezenath! A man!"
Hawkmoon looked in the direction D'Averc indicated.
Sure enough, a figure was strolling along the shore below. As they stared, he looked up and waved cheerfully, gesturing them towards him.
Certain they were suffering hallucinations, the two began slowly to climb down until they were close to the him. He stood there, fists on his hips, feet wide apart, grinning at them. They paused.
The man was dressed in a peculiar and archaic fashion. Over his brawny torso was stretched a jerkin of leather, leaving his arms and chest bare. He wore a woollen bonnet on his mop of red hair and a pheasant's tailfeather was stuck jauntily into it. His breeks were of a strange chequered design and he wore battered buckled boots on his feet. Secured over his back by a cord was a gigantic battle-axe, its steel blade streaked with dirt and battered by much use. His face was bony and red and his pale blue eyes were sardonic as he stared at them.
"Well, now—you'd be the Hawkmoon and the D'Averc," he said in a strange accent. "I was told you'd likely come."
"And who are you, sir?" D'Averc asked somewhat haughtily.
"Why, I'm Orland Fank, didn't you know? Orland Fank—here at your service, good sirs."
"Do you live on this island?" Hawkmoon asked.
"I have lived on it, but not at the moment, don't you know." Fank removed his bonnet and wiped his forehead with his arm. "I'm a travelling man, these days.
Like yourselves, I understand."
"And who told you of us?" Hawkmoon asked.
"I've a brother. Given to wearing somewhat fancy metal of black and gold ..."
"The Warrior in Jet and Gold!" Hawkmoon exclaimed.
"He's called some such foppish title, I gather. He would not have mentioned his rough and ready brother to you, I don't doubt."
"He did not. Who are you?"
"I'm called Orland Fank. From Skare Brae—in the Orkneys, you know..."
"The Orkneys!" Hawkmoon's hand went to his sword.
"Is that not part of Granbretan? Island to the far north!"
Fank laughed. "Tell an Orkney man that he belongs to the Dark Empire, and he'll tear the throat from you with his teeth!" He gestured apologetically, and as if in explanation said, "It's the favourite way of dealing with a foe out there, you know. We're not a sophisticated folk."
"So the Warrior in Jet and Gold is also from the Orkneys ..." D'Averc began.
"Save you, no man! Him from the Orkneys, with his fancy suit of armour and his fine manner!" Orland Fank laughed heartily. "No. He's no Orkney man!" Fank wiped tears of laughter from his eyes with his battered bonnet. "Why should you think that?"
"You said he was your brother."
"So he is. Spiritually, you might say. Perhaps even physically. I've forgotten. It's been many years, you see, since we first came together."
"What brought you together?"
"A common cause, you might say. A shared ideal."
"And would the Runestaff be the source of that cause?"
Hawkmoon murmured, his voice hardly louder than the whisper of the surf below them.
"It might."
"You seem close-mouthed, suddenly, friend Fank," said D'Averc.
"Aye. In Orkney, we're a close-mouthed folk," smiled Orland Fank. "Indeed, I'm considered something of a babbler there." He did not seem offended.
Hawkmoon gestured behind him. "Those monsters.
The strange clouds we saw earlier. Would that be to do with the Runestaff?"
"I saw no monsters. No clouds. I've but recently arrived here myself."
"We were driven to this island by gigantic reptiles,"
Hawkmoon said. "And now I begin to see why. They, too, served the Runestaff, I do not doubt."
"That's as may be," Fank replied. "It's not my business you see, Lord Dorian."
"Was it the Runestaff that caused our boat to be wrecked?" Hawkmoon asked fiercely.
"I could not say," Fank replied, replacing his bonnet on his mop of red hair and scratching at his bony chin.
"I only know that I'm here to give you a boat and tell you where you might find the nearest habitable land."
"You have a boat for us?" D'Averc was astonished.
"Aye. Not a splendid one, but a seaworthy craft none-theless. It should take the two of you."
"We have a crew of fifty!" Hawkmoon's eyes blazed.
"Oh, if the Runestaff wishes me to serve it, it should ar-range things better! All it has succeeded in doing so far is to anger me fiercely!"
"Your anger will only weary you," Orland Fank replied mildly. "I had thought you bound for Dnark in the Runestaff's service. My brother told me ..."
"Your brother insisted I go to Dnark. But I have other loyalties, Orland Fank—loyalties to the wife I have not seen for months, to the father-in-law who awaits my return, to my friends..."
"The folk of Castle Brass? Aye, I've heard of them.
They are safe, for the moment, if that comforts you."
"You know this for certain?"
"Aye. Their lives are pretty much without event, save for the trouble with one Elvereza Tozer."
"Tozer! What of the renegade?"
"He has vanished from the Komarg, I gather." Orland Fank made a flying gesture with his hand.
"For where?"
"Who knows?"
"They are well rid of Tozer, at any rate."
"I do not know the man."
"A talented playwright," Hawkmoon said, "with the morals of a—of a ..."
"A Granbretanian?" offered Fank.
"Exactly." Hawkmoon frowned then and stared hard at Orland Fank. "You would not deceive me? My kin and friends are safe?"
"Their security is not for the moment threatened."
Hawkmoon sighed. "Where is this boat? And what of my crew?"
"I have some small skill as a shipwright. I'll help them mend their ship so that they can return to Narleen."
"Why cannot we go with them?" D'Averc asked.
"I understood you were an impatient pair," Fank said innocently, "and that you would be off the island as soon as you could. It will take many days to repair the large craft."
"We'll take your little boat," Hawkmoon said. "It seems that if we did not, the Runestaff—or whatever power it was that really sent us here—would see to it that we were further inconvenienced."
"I understand that would be likely," Fank agreed, smiling a little to himself.
"And how will you leave the island if we take your boat?" D'Averc asked.
"I'll sail with the seamen of Narleen. I have a great deal of time to spare."
"How far is it to the mainland?" Hawkmoon asked.
"And by what shall we sail? Have you a compass to lend us?"
Fank shrugged. "It's of no great distance and you'll not need a compass. You need only wait for the right sort of wind."
"What do you mean?"
"The winds in these parts are somewhat peculiar. You will understand what I mean."
Hawkmoon shrugged in resignation.
They followed as Orland Fank led the way around the shore.
"It would seem that we are not quite as much the masters of our destinies as we should like," murmured D'Averc sardonically as the small
boat came in sight.
Chapter Five - A City of Glowing Shadows
HAWKMOON LAY SCOWLING in the small boat and D'Averc whistled a tune as he stood in the prow, the spray lashing his face. For a whole day now the wind had guided the craft, blowing them on what was plainly a particular course.
"Now I understand what Fank meant about the wind," growled Hawkmoon. "This is no natural breeze.
I resent the feeling of being the puppet of some supernatural agency."
D'Averc grinned and pointed ahead. "Well, perhaps we'll have a chance to voice our complaints to the agency itself. See—land in sight."
Hawkmoon rose reluctantly. There were faint signs of land on the horizon.
"And so we return to Amarehk!" D'Averc laughed.
"If only it were Europe and Yisselda were there."
Hawkmoon sat down again.
"Or even Londra, and Flana to comfort me." D'Averc shrugged and began to cough theatrically. "Still, it is best this way, lest she find herself pledged to a sick and dying creature..."
Gradually they made out features on the shoreline: ir-regular cliffs, hills and beaches; some trees. Then, to the south, they saw a peculiar aura of golden light—light which throbbed as if in concert to a gigantic heart.
"More disturbing phenomena." D'Averc frowned.
The wind blew harder and the little boat turned toward the golden light.
"And we're heading directly for it," groaned Hawkmoon. "I am becoming tired of such things!"
Now it was clear they sailed into a bay formed by the mainland and a long island jutting out between the two shores. It was from the far end of this island that the golden light was pulsing.
The land on either side seemed pleasant, consisting of beaches and wooded hills, though there were no signs of habitation.
As they neared the source of the light, it began to fade until only a faint glow filled the sky and the boat's speed diminished. They still sailed directly towards the light. They saw it, then, and were amazed ...
It was a city of such grace and beauty it robbed them of speech. As huge as Londra, if not larger, its buildings were symmetrical spires and domes and turrets, all glowing with the same strange light, but coloured in delicate, pale shades that lurked behind the gold—pink, yellow, blue, green, violet and cerise—like a painting created in light and then washed with gold. Its magnificent beauty did not seem a proper habitation for human creatures, but for gods.
Now the ship sailed into a harbour stretching out from the city, its quays shifting with the same subtle shades of the buildings.
"It is like a dream..." Hawkmoon murmured.
"A dream of heaven." D'Averc's cynicism had vanished before the vision.
The little boat drifted to a set of steps that led down to the water, which was dappled with the reflections of the colours, and came to a halt.
D'Averc shrugged. "I suppose this is where we disembark. The boat could have borne us to a less pleasant place."
Hawkmoon nodded gravely and then said: "Are the Rings of Myggan still in your pouch, D'Averc?"
D'Averc patted his pouch. "They are safe. Why?"
"I wanted to know that if the danger was too great for us to face with our swords and there was time to use the rings, we could use them."
D'Averc nodded his understanding and then his forehead creased. "Strange that we did not think of using them on the island..."
Hawkmoon's face showed his astonishment. "Aye-aye . . ." And then he pursed his lips in disgust. "Doubtless that was the result of supernatural interference with our brains! How I hate the supernatural!"
D'Averc merrily put his fingers to his lips and put on an expression of mock disapproval. "What a thing to say in a city such as this!"
"Aye—well, I hope its inhabitants are as pleasant as its appearance."
"If it has any inhabitants," replied D'Averc glancing around him.
Together they climbed the steps and reached the quayside. The strange buildings were ahead of them and between the buildings ran wide streets.
"Let's enter the city," Hawkmoon said resolutely,
"and find out why we have been taken here as soon as we can. Then, perhaps, we shall be allowed to return to Castle Brass!"
Entering the nearest street, it seemed to them that the shadows cast by the buildings actually glowed with a life and a colour of their own. At close hand the tall towers were hardly tangible and when Hawkmoon reached out to touch one the substance of it was unlike anything he had touched before. It was not stone and it was not timber; not steel even, for it gave slightly under his fingers and made them tingle. He was also surprised by the warmth that ran through his arm and suffused his body.
He shook his head. "It is more like flesh than stone!"
D'Averc reached out now and was equally astonished.
"Aye—or like vegetation of some kind. Organic—living stuff!"
They moved on. Every so often the long streets would broaden out into squares. They crossed the squares, choosing another street at random, looking up at the building which gave the appearance of infinite height, which disappeared into the strange, golden haze.
Their voices were hushed; they feared to disturb the silence of the great city.
"Have you noticed," murmured Hawkmoon, "that there are no windows?"
"And no doors." D'Averc nodded. "I am certain that this city was not built for human use—and that humans did not build it!"
"Perhaps some beings created in the Tragic Millennium," Hawkmoon suggested. "Beings like the Wraith Folk of Soryandum."
D'Averc nodded his head in agreement.
Now ahead of them the strange shadows seemed to gather closer together and they passed into them, an impression of great well-being overcoming them.
Hawkmoon smiled in spite of his fears, and D'Averc, too, answered his smile. The glowing shadows swam around them. Hawkmoon began to wonder if perhaps these shadows were, in fact, the inhabitants of the city.
They passed out of the street and stood in a huge square without doubt the very centre of the city. Rising from the middle of this square was a cylindrical building. In spite of being the largest building in the city it also seemed the most delicate. Its walls moved with coloured light and Hawkmoon noticed something at its base.
"Look, D'Averc—steps leading to a door!"
"What should we do, I wonder," whispered his friend.
Hawkmoon shrugged. "Enter, of course. What have we to lose?"
"Perhaps we shall discover the answer to that question within. After you, Duke of Koln!"
The two mounted the steps and climbed until they reached the doorway. It was relatively small—of human size in fact and within it they could see more of the glowing shadows.
Hawkmoon stepped bravely forward with D'Averc immediately behind him.
Chapter Six - Jehamia Cohnahlias
THEIR FEET SEEMED to sink into the floor and the glowing shadows wrapped themselves around them as they advanced into the scintillating darkness of the tower.
A sweet sound now filled the corridors—a gentle sound like an unearthly lullaby. The music increased their sense of well-being. They pressed deeper into the strangely organic construction.
And then suddenly they stood in a small room, full of the same golden, pulsing radiance they had seen earlier from the boat.
And the radiance came from a child.
He was a boy, of oriental appearance, with a soft, brown skin, clad in robes on to which jewels had been stitched so that the fabric was completely hidden.
He smiled and his smile matched the gentle radiance surrounding him. It was impossible not to love him.
"Duke Dorian Hawkmoon von Koln," he said sweetly, bowing his head, "and Huillam D'Averc. I have admired both your painting and your buildings, sir."
D'Averc was astonished. "You know of those?"
"They are excellent. Why do you not do more?"
D'Averc coughed in embarrassment. "I—I lost the knack, I suppose. And then the w
ar..."
"Ah, of course. The Dark Empire. That is why you are here."
"I would gather so—"
"I am called Jehamia Cohnahlias." The boy smiled again. "And that is the only direct information about myself I can offer you, in case you were going to ask me anything further. This city is called Dnark and its inhabitants are called in the outer world The Great Good Ones. You have encountered some of them already, I believe."
"The glowing shadows?" Hawkmoon asked.
"Is that how you perceive them?"
"Are they sentient?" Hawkmoon queried.
"They are indeed. More than sentient, perhaps."
"And this city, Dnark," Hawkmoon said. "It is the legendary City of the Runestaff."
"It is."
"Strange that all those legends should place its position not on the continent of Amarehk, but in Asiacommunista, said D'Averc.
"Perhaps it is not a coincidence," smiled the boy. "It is convenient to have such legends."
"I understand."
Jehamia Cohnahlias smiled quietly.
"You have come to see the Runestaff, I gather?"
"Apparently," said Hawkmoon, unable to feel anger in the presence of the child. "First the Warrior in Jet and Gold told us to come here and then when we demurred we were introduced to his brother—one Orland Fank..."
"Ah, yes," smiled Jehamia Cohnahlias. "Orland Fank.
I have a special affection for that particular servant of the Runestaff. Well, let us go." He frowned slightly.
"Ah, first you will want to refresh yourselves and meet a fellow traveller. One who preceded you here by only a matter of hours."
"Do we know him?"
"I believe you have had some contact in the past"
The boy seemed almost to float down from his chair.
"This way."
"Who can it be?" murmured D'Averc to Hawkmoon.
"Who would we know who would come to Dnark?"
Chapter Seven - A Well-Known Traveller
THEY FOLLOWED JEHEMIA Cohnahlias through the winding, organic corridors of the building. Now they were lighter, for the glowing shadows—the Great Good Ones as the boy had described them—had vanished. Presumably their task had been to help guide Hawkmoon and D'Averc to the child.
The History of the Runestaff Page 48
