The History of the Runestaff

by Michael Moorcock

  Weakly, Hawkmoon attempted to rise and then fell face down on the stones. The note boomed gradually away, the colours began to fade, the ringing sound sub-sided quite suddenly.

  So there was silence.

  Chapter Two - The Blackened Marsh

  "THE CRYSTAL is destroyed..."

  Hawkmoon shook his head and blinked his eyes.

  "Eh?"

  "The crystal is destroyed, "D'Averc knelt beside him trying to help him to his feet.

  "Yisselda?" Hawkmoon said. "How is she?"

  "No worse than you. We have put her to bed. The crystal is destroyed."

  Hawkmoon dug dried blood from ears and nostrils.

  "You mean the Rings of Mygan?"

  "D'Averc—tell him more clearly." It was Bowgentle's voice. "Tell him that the machine of the wraith folk is broken."

  "Broken?" Hawkmoon heaved himself to his feet.

  "Was that the final shattering sound I heard?"

  "That was it." Now Count Brass stood nearby, leaning wearily on a table and mopping at his face. "The vibrations destroyed the crystals."

  "Then—?" Hawkmoon glanced questioningly at Count Brass who nodded.

  "Aye—we're back in our own dimension."

  "And not under attack?"

  "It does not seem so."

  Hawkmoon took a deep breath and began to walk slowly to the main doors of the hall. Painfully he drew back the iron bar and tugged the doors open.

  It was still night. The stars in the sky remained the same but the swirling blue clouds had vanished and there was an uncanny silence hanging over the area, a strange smell in the air. But no flamingoes squawked, no wind sighed through the reeds.

  Slowly, thoughtfully, Hawkmoon closed the doors again.

  "Where are the legions?" D'Averc asked. "One would have thought they were waiting for us—at least a few!"

  Hawkmoon frowned. "We'll have to wait until morning before we can guess the answer to that. Perhaps they are out there, planning to take us by surprise."

  "Do you think that sound was sent by the Dark Empire?" Oladahn asked.

  "Without doubt," Count Brass answered. "They have succeeded in their object. They have brought us back to our own dimension." He sniffed the air. "I wish I could identify that smell."

  D'Averc was sorting things from the wreckage of the table. "It is a miracle that we are alive," he said.

  "Aye," said Hawkmoon. "That noise seemed to affect inanimate things worse than us."

  "Two of the older servants are dead," Count Brass said quietly. "Their hearts could not stand it, I suppose.

  They are being buried now, in case it is not possible in the morning. In the inner courtyard."

  "What of the castle?" Oladahn asked.

  Count Brass shrugged. "It's hard to tell. I've been down to the dungeons. The crystal machine is completely smashed and some of the stonework is cracked.

  But this is a strong old castle. She seems to have fared not too badly. No window glass, of course. No glass of any sort intact. Otherwise . . ." He shrugged as if his beloved castle had ceased to matter to him, "... otherwise we are still standing as firm as we did before."

  "Let's hope so," murmured D'Averc. He held the Sword of the Dawn by its scabbard and the Red Amulet by its chain. He offered them to Hawkmoon. "You'd best don these for it is certain that you will soon have need of them."

  Hawkmoon put the amulet around his neck and buckled the scabbard to his belt. Then he stopped and picked up the swaddled Runestaff.

  "This does not seem to be bringing us the luck I had hoped," he said and sighed.

  Dawn came at last. It came slowly and it came grey and chill, the horizon white as an old corpse and the clouds the colour of bone.

  Five heroes watched it rise. They stood outside the gates of Castle Brass, on the hill, and their hands were On their swords, their grips tightening as they saw the scene below.

  It was the Kamarg they had left, but it was a Kamarg wasted by war. The smell they had spoken of earlier was the smell of carnage, of a burnt land. For as far as they could see, all was black ruin. The marshes and lagoons had all been dried up by the fire of the flame cannon.

  The flamingoes, the horses and the bulls had been destroyed or fled. The watchtowers which had guarded the borders were flattened. It seemed as if the whole world were a sea of grey ash.

  "It is all gone," said Count Brass in a low voice. "All gone, my beloved Kamarg, my people, my animals. I was their elected Lord Guardian and I failed in my task.

  Now there is nothing to live for save vengeance. Let me reach the gates of Londra and see the city taken. Then I will die. But not before."

  Chapter Three - Dark Empire Carnage

  BY THE TIME they reached the borders of the Kamarg, Hawkmoon and Oladahn were covered from head to foot in clinging ash which stung their nostrils and was harsh in their throats. Their horses, too, were covered in the stuff and their eyes were as red as their riders'.

  Now the sea of ash gave way to sparse, yellow grassland and still they had found no sign of the legions of the Dark Empire.

  A little watery sunshine broke through the layers of cloud as Hawkmoon drew his horse to a halt and consulted his map. He pointed due East. "The village of Verlin lies yonder. Let's ride cautiously and see if Granbretanian troops still occupy it."

  The village came in sight at last and when he saw it Hawkmoon began to gallop faster. Oladahn called from, behind him: "What is it, Duke Dorian? What has happened?"

  Hawkmoon did not reply for, as they neared the village, it could be seen that half the buildings lay in ruins, that corpses choked the streets. And still no sign of the Dark Empire troops.

  Many of the buildings had been blackened by flame lance fire and some of the corpses had been slain by Same lances. Here and there lay the body of a Granbretanian, an armoured figure with its mask tilting skyward.

  "They were all Wolves here, by the look of it,"

  Hawkmoon murmured. "Meliadus's men. It seems they fell upon the villagers and the villagers attacked them back. See—that Wolf was stabbed by a reaping hook-that one died from the blow of the spade still in his neck..."

  "Maybe the villagers rose up against them," Oladahn suggested, "and the Wolves retaliated."

  "Then why did they leave the village?" Hawkmoon pointed out. "They were garrisoned here."

  They guided their horses over the bodies of the fallen.

  The stink of death was still heavy in the air. It was plain that this carnage had been wreaked only recently.

  Hawkmoon pointed out gutted stores and the corpses of cattle, horses, even dogs.

  "They left nothing alive. Nothing which could be used for food. It is as if they were in retreat from some more powerful enemy!"

  "Who is more powerful than the Dark Empire?"

  Oladahn said with a shudder. "Have we some new enemy to face, friend Hawkmoon?"

  "I hope not. Yet this sight is puzzling."

  "And disgusting," Oladahn added. There were not only men dead in the streets, but children too and every woman, young or old, bore signs of having been raped before she had been slain, mostly by means of a cut throat, for the Granbretanian soldiery liked to slay their victims as they raped them.

  Hawkmoon sighed. "It is the sign of the Dark Empire, everywhere you venture."

  He looked up, bending his head to catch a small sound carried on the chill wind. "A cry! Someone still lives, perhaps."

  He turned his horse and followed the sound until he entered a sidestreet. Here a door had been broken open and a girl's body lay half in the doorway, half in the street. The cry was stronger. Hawkmoon dismounted and walked cautiously towards the house. It came from the girl. Quickly he knelt down and raised her in his arms. She was almost naked, her body covered with a few strips of torn clothing. There was a red line across her throat as if a blunt dagger had been drawn across it.

  She was about fifteen, with tangled fair hair and glazed blue eyes. Her body was a mass of blue-black brui
ses.

  She gasped as Hawkmoon lifted her.

  Hawkmoon lowered her gently and went to his saddle, returning with a flask of wine. He put the flask to her lips and she drank, gasping, her eyes suddenly widening in alarm.

  "Do not fear," Hawkmoon said softly. "I am an enemy of the Dark Empire."

  "And you live?"

  Hawkmoon smiled sardonically. "Aye—I live. I am Dorian Hawkmoon, the Duke of Koln."

  "Hawkmoon von Koln? But we thought you dead—or flown forever..."

  "Well I have returned and your village shall be revenged, I swear. What happened here?"

  "I am not altogether sure, my lord, save that the beasts of the Dark Empire intended to leave none alive." She looked up suddenly. "My father and mother—my sister..."

  Hawkmoon glanced inside the house and shuddered.

  "Dead," he said. It had been an understatement. They had been disgustingly mutilated. He picked up the girl as she sobbed and took her to his horse. "I will carry you back to Castle Brass," he said.

  Chapter Four - New Helms

  SHE LAY IN the softest bed in Castle Brass, tended by Bowgentle, comforted by Yisselda and Hawkmoon who sat beside her bed. But she was dying. She was dying not from her injuries but from sorrow. She wished to die.

  They respected that wish.

  "For several months," she murmured, "the Wolf troops occupied our village. They took everything while we starved. We heard that they were part of an army left to guard the Kamarg, though we could not think what there was to guard of that wasteland ..."

  "They were awaiting our return most likely," Hawkmoon told her.

  "That would seem likely," the girl said gravely.

  She continued: "Then yesterday an ornithopter arrived at the village and its pilot went straight to the commander of the garrison. We heard it rumoured that the soldiers were being recalled to Londra and we were overjoyed. An hour later the soldiers of the garrison fell upon the village, killing, looting, raping. They had orders to leave nothing alive so that when they returned they would not meet resistance, so that any others who came upon the village should not find food. An hour af-terwards, they were gone."

  "So they plan to return," Hawkmoon mused. "But I wonder why they left..."

  "Some invading enemy, perhaps?" Bowgentle suggested, bathing the girl's brow.

  "That was my guess—and yet it does not seem to fit."

  Hawkmoon sighed. "It is puzzling—frightening that we know so little."

  There came a knock upon the door and D'Averc entered. "An old friend is here, Hawkmoon."

  "An old friend? Who?"

  "The Orkneyman-Orland Fank."

  Hawkmoon rose. "Perhaps he can enlighten us."

  As he walked towards the door Bowgentle spoke quietly. "The girl is dead, Duke Dorian."

  "She knows she will be avenged," Hawkmoon said flatly and he left to descend the stairs to the hall.

  "Something is in the wind, I agree, friend," Orland Fank was saying to Count Brass as they stood together beside the fire. He waved his hand as Hawkmoon joined them. "And how d'you fare, Duke Dorian?"

  "Well enough, in the circumstances. Do you know why the legions are leaving, Master Fank?"

  "I was telling the good Count Brass here that I do not..."

  "Ah, and I thought you omniscient, Master Fank."

  Fank grinned sheepishly, tugging off his bonnet to wipe his face with it. "I still need time to gather information and I've been busy the while since you left Dnark. I've brought gifts for all the heroes of Castle Brass."

  "You are kind."

  "They're not from me, you understand, but from—well, the Runestaff, I suppose. I'll give you them later.

  They've little practical use, you might think, but then it's hard to say what is practical and what is not in the fight against the Dark Empire.

  Hawkmoon turned to D'Averc. "What did you discover on your ride?"

  "Much the same as you," D'Averc replied. "Razed villages, all the inhabitants hastily slain. Signs of an over-swift departure on the part of the troops. I gather that there are still some garrisons in the large towns, but they are skeleton staffed—mainly artillery and no cavalry at all."

  "This seems insane," murmured Count Brass.

  "If they are insane, then we may yet take advantage of their lack of rationality," Hawkmoon said with a grim smile.

  "Well spoken, Duke Dorian," Fank clapped his red, brawny hand on Hawkmoon's shoulder. "Now can I bring in the gifts."

  "By all means, Master Fank."

  "Lend me a couple of servants to help, if you will, for there's six of 'em and they're powerful heavy. I brought them on two horses."

  A few moments later the servants came in, each holding two wrapped objects, one in each hand. Fank himself brought in the remaining two. He laid them on the flagstones at their feet. "Open them, gentlemen."

  Hawkmoon bent and pulled back the cloth that wrapped one of the gifts. He blinked as the light struck his eyes and he saw his own face reflected perfectly back at him. He was puzzled, dragging off the rest of the cloth to stare in astonishment at the object before him.

  The others, too, were murmuring in surprise.

  The objects were battle helmets designed to cover the whole head and rest on the shoulders. The metal of their manufacture was unfamiliar, but it was polished more finely than the finest mirror Hawkmoon had ever seen. With the exception of two eye slits the fronts of the helms were completely smooth, without decoration of any sort so that whoever stared at them saw a complete image of himself. The backs were crested in the same metal, with clean, simple decoration. It struck Hawkmoon how useful they could be in battle, for the enemy would be confused by his own reflection, would have the impression that he was fighting himself!

  Hawkmoon laughed aloud. "Why, whoever invented these must be a genius! They are the finest helms I have ever seen."

  "Try them on," Fank said, grinning back. "You'll find they fit well. They are the Runestaffs answer to the beast masks of the Dark Empire."

  "How do we know which is ours," Count Brass said.

  "You will know," Fank told him. "The one you have opened. The one with the crest the colour of brass."

  Count Brass smiled and lifted the helm to place it upon his shoulders. Hawkmoon looked at him and saw his own face, the dull black jewel in the centre of his forehead, staring back in amused surprise. Hawkmoon lifted his helm over his head. His had a golden crest.

  Now when he turned to regard Count Brass it seemed at first that the count's helm gave no reflection, until Hawkmoon realised that there were an infinity of reflections.

  The others had put their helms on their shoulders.

  D'Averc's had a blue crest and Oladahn's a scarlet one.

  They laughed with pleasure.

  "A goodly gift, Master Fank," Hawkmoon said, removing his helmet. "An excellent gift. But what of the other two helms?"

  Fank smiled mysteriously. "Ah—ah, yes—they would be for those who would desire them."

  "For yourself?"

  "Not for myself, no—I must admit I tend to disdain armour. It is cumbersome stuff and it makes it harder for me to wield my old battle-axe here." He jerked his thumb behind him at the axe secured by a cord on his back.

  "Then who are the other two helms for?" Count Brass said, removing his own helm.

  "You will know when you know," Fank said. "And then it will seem obvious to you. How are the folk of Castle Brass faring?"

  "You mean the villagers of the hill?" Hawkmoon said.

  "Well, some of them were slain by the striking of the great gong recalling us to our own dimension. A few buildings fell, but all in all they survived well enough. The remaining Kamargian cavalry has survived."

  "About five hundred men," said D'Averc. "Our army."

  "Aye," Fank said with a sidelong glance at the Frenchman. "Aye. Well, I must be away about my business."

  "And what business would that be, Master Fank?" Oladahn asked.

  Fan
k paused. "In the Orkneys, my friend, we are not asking of each other's business," he said chidingly.

  "Thank you for the gifts," Oladahn said with a bow, "and forgive my curiosity."

  "I accept your apology," Fank said.

  "Before you leave, Master Fank, I thank you on be-half of us all for these welcome gifts," Count Brass told him. "And could we bother you with a final question?"

  "You are all prone to too much questioning in my own opinion," Fank said. "But then we're close-mouthed in the Orkneys. Ask away, friend, and I'll do my level best to answer, if the question is not too personal."

  "Do you know how the crystal machine came to be shattered?" Count Brass asked. "What caused it?"

  "I would gather that Lord Taragorm, Master of the Palace of Time in Londra, discovered the means of breaking your machine once he understood its source.

  He has many old texts which would tell him such things. Doubtless he built a clock whose striking would travel through the dimensions and be of such a pitch and volume as to shatter the crystal. It was, I believe, the one remedy of the enemies of the folk of Soryandum who gave you the machine."

  "So it was the Dark Empire brought us back," Hawkmoon said. "But if that was so, then why were they not waiting for us?"

  "Perhaps a domestic crisis of some sort," Orland Fank said. "We shall see. Farewell, my friends. I have the feeling we will meet again shortly."

  Chapter Five - Five Heroes and A Heroine

  AS THE GATES closed behind Fank, Bowgentle descended the stairs and there was an odd expression on his kindly features. He walked stiffly, and his eyes had a distant look.

  "What is it, Bowgentle," Count Brass said in concern, moving forward to grip his old friend by the arm. "You seem disturbed."

  Bowgentle shook his head. "Not disturbed—resolute. I have reached a decision. It is many years since I have wielded a weapon larger than a pen, borne anything weightier than a difficult problem in philosophy. Now I will bear arms against Londra. I will ride with you when you set out against the Dark Empire."