The Chronicles of Castle Brass

by Michael Moorcock

  'What do you know of such matters?' Baron Kalan demanded. 'Why—you are barely real yourself!'

  'That's as may be. I suspect that your own reality is also at stake, is it not? Why can you not kill Hawkmoon yourself? Because of the repercussions, eh? Have you plotted the possibilities following such an action? Are they not very palatable?'

  'Be silent, puppet!' Baron Kalan demanded. 'Or you, too, will return to limbo. I offer you full life if you destroy Hawkmoon—or can convince Count Brass to do it!'

  'Why did you not send Count Brass to limbo just now when he attacked you? Is it because you must have Hawkmoon killed by one of us and now there are only two left who can do your work?'

  'I told you to be silent!' Kalan snarled. 'You should have worked with the Dark Empire, Sir Bowgentle. Such wit as yours is wasted among the barbarians.'

  Bowgentle smiled. 'Barbarians? I have heard something of what, in my future, the Dark Empire will do to its enemies. Your choice of words is poor, Baron Kalan.'

  'I warned you,' Kalan said menacingly. 'You go too far. I am still a Lord of Granbretan. I cannot tolerate such familiarity!'

  'Your lack of tolerance has been your downfall once —or will be. We are beginning to understand what it is you try to do in your imitation Londra . . .'

  'You know?' Kalan looked almost frightened. His lips pursed and his brows drew together. 'You know, eh? I think we made a mistake in bringing a pawn of your perception on to the board, Sir Bowgentle.'

  'Aye, perhaps you did.'

  Kalan began to fiddle with the small pyramid he held in his hand. 'Then it would be wise to sacrifice that pawn now,' he muttered.

  Bowgentle seemed to realise what was in Kalan's mind. He took a step backward. 'Is that really wise? Are you not manipulating forces you barely understand?'

  'Perhaps.' Baron Kalan chuckled. 'But that is no comfort to you, eh?'

  Bowgentle grew pale.

  Hawkmoon made to move forward, wondering at the manner in which Count Brass still remained frozen, seemingly unaware of what was taking place. Then he felt a light touch on his shoulder and he started, turning and reaching for his sword. But it was the almost invisible Wraith-man, Rinal, who stood behind him. Rinal whispered:

  'The sphere comes. This is your chance to follow the pyramid.'

  'But Bowgentle is in danger . . .' Hawkmoon murmured. 'I must try to save him.'

  'You will not be able to save him. It is unlikely that he will be harmed, that he will retain anything but the dimmest memory of these events—as you recall a fading dream.'

  'But he is my friend . . .'

  'You will serve him better if you can find a way of stopping Kalan's activities forever.' Rinal pointed. Several of his folk were drifting down the street towards them. They were carrying a large sphere of glowing yellow. 'There will be a few moments after the pyramid has gone when you'll be able to follow it.'

  'But Count Brass—he has been mesmerised by Kalan.'

  'The power will fade when Kalan leaves.'

  Bowgentle was speaking hurriedly. 'Why should you fear my knowledge, Baron Kalan? You are strong. I am weak. It is you who manipulates me!'

  'The more you know the less I can predict,' said Kalan. 'It is simple, Sir Bowgentle. Farewell.'

  And Bowgentle cried out, whirled as if trying to escape. He began to run and as he ran he faded, faded until he had disappeared altogether.

  Hawkmoon heard Baron Kalan laugh. It was a familiar laugh. A laugh he had grown to hate. Only Rinal's hand on his shoulder stopped him from attacking Kalan who, still unaware that he was observed, addressed Count Brass:

  'You will gain much, Count Brass, by serving my purpose—and gain nothing if you do not. Why should it be Hawkmoon who plagues me always? I had thought it a simple matter to eliminate him and yet in every probability I investigate he emerges again. He is eternal, I sometimes think—perhaps immortal. Only if he is slain by another hero, another champion of that damned Runestaff, can events progress along the course I choose. So slay him, Count Brass. Earn life for yourself and for me!'

  Count Brass moved his head. He blinked. He looked around him as if he did not see the pyramid, or its occupant.

  The pyramid began to glow with a milky whiteness. The whiteness became brilliant, blinding. Count Brass cursed and threw his arm up to protect his eyes.

  And then the brilliance faded and there was only a dim outline against the night.

  'Quickly,' said Rinal. 'Into the sphere.'

  As Hawkmoon passed through an entrance that was like a flimsy curtain which instantly reformed behind him, he saw Rinal drift over to Count Brass, seize him and bear him to the sphere, flinging him in after Hawkmoon so that he sprawled, sword still in hand, at Hawkmoon's feet.

  'The sapphire,' Rinal said urgently. 'Touch the sapphire. It is all you must do. And I wish you success, Dorian Hawkmoon, in that other Londra!'

  Hawkmoon reached out and touched the sapphire stone suspended in the air before him.

  At once the sphere seemed to spin around them, while he and Count Brass remained motionless. They were in complete blackness now and the white pyramid could be seen through the walls of the sphere.

  Suddenly there was sunshine and a landscape of green rocks. This faded almost as quickly as it had appeared. More images followed rapidly.

  Megaliths of light, lakes of boiling metal, cities of glass and steel, battlefields on which thousands fought, forests through which strode shadowy giants, frozen seas—and always the pyramid was ahead of them as if shifted through plane after plane of the Earth, through worlds which seemed totally alien and worlds which seemed absolutely identical to Hawkmoon's.

  Once before had Hawkmoon travelled through the dimensions. But then he had been escaping from danger. Now he went towards it.

  Count Brass spoke for the first time. 'What happened back there? I remember trying to attack Baron Kalan, deciding that even if he sent me to limbo I should have his life first. Next I was in this—this chariot. Where is Bowgentle?'

  'Bowgentle had begun to understand Kalan's plot,' Hawkmoon said grimly, keeping his eyes fixed on the pyramid ahead. 'And so Kalan banished him back to wherever it was he came from. But Kalan also gave something away. He said that, for some reason, I could only be slain by a friend—by some other who had served the Runestaff. And that, he said, would ensure the friend's life.'

  Count Brass shrugged. 'It still has the smell of a perverse plot to me. Why should it matter who slays you?'

  'Well, Count Brass,' said Hawkmoon soberly. 'I have often said that I would give anything for you not to have died on that battlefield at Londra. I would give my life, even. So, if the time ever comes when you wish to be done with all this—you can always kill me.'

  Count Brass laughed. 'If you want to die, Dorian Hawkmoon, I am sure you can find one more used to cold-blooded assassination in Londra, or wherever it is we journey to now.' He sheathed his great brass-hilted sword. 'I'll save my own strength for dealing with Baron Kalan and his servants when we get there!'

  'If they are not prepared for us,' said Hawkmoon, as wild scenes continued to come and go at even greater speed. He felt dizzy and he closed his eyes. 'This journey through infinity appears to take an infinity! Once I cursed the Runestaff for meddling in my affairs, but now I wish greatly that Orland Fank was here to advise me. Still, it is plain by now that the Runestaff plays no part in this.'

  'Just as well,' growled Count Brass. 'There is already too much sorcery and science involved for my taste! I'll be happier when all this is finished, even should it mean my own death!'

  Hawkmoon nodded his agreement. He was remembering Yisselda and his children, Manfred and Yarmila. He was remembering the quiet life of the Kamarg and the satisfactions he had got from seeing the marshlands restocked, the harvests brought in. And he was regretting bitterly that he had ever allowed himself to fall into the trap Baron Kalan had evidently set for him when he had sent Count Brass through time to haunt the Kamarg.

  An
d at that, another thought occurred to him. Had all this been a trap?

  Did Baron Kalan actually want to be followed? Were they being lured, even now, to their doom?

  Book Three

  Old Dreams and New

  Chapter One

  The World Half-Made

  Count Brass, lying uncomfortably along the curve of the sphere's interior, groaned and shifted his brass-clad bulk again. He peered through the misty yellow wall and watched the landscape outside change forty times in as many seconds. The pyramid was still ahead of them. Sometimes the outline of Baron Kalan could be seen within. Sometimes the vessel's surface turned to that familiar, blinding white.

  'Ah, my eyes ache!' grumbled Count Brass. 'They grow weary of so many variegated sights. And my head aches when I strive to consider exactly what is happening to us. If I should ever tell of this adventure I shall never have my word believed again!'

  And then Hawkmoon cautioned him to silence, for the scenes came and went much more slowly until at last they ceased to change. They hung in darkness. All they could see beyond the sphere was the white pyramid.

  Light came from somewhere.

  Hawkmoon recognised Baron Kalan's laboratory. He acted swiftly, instinctively. 'Quickly, Count Brass, we must leave the sphere.'

  They dived through the curtain and onto the dirty flagstones of the floor. By chance they were behind several large and crazily shaped machines at the back of the laboratory.

  Hawkmoon saw the sphere shudder and vanish. Now only Kalan's pyramid offered an escape from this dimension. Familiar smells and sounds came to Hawkmoon. He remembered when he had first visited Kalan's laboratories, as a prisoner of Baron Meliadus, to have the Black Jewel implanted in his skull. He felt a strange coldness in his bones. Their arrival had been unnoticed it seemed, for Kalan's serpent-masked servants had their attention on the pyramid, standing ready to hand their master his own mask when he emerged. The pyramid sank slowly to the ground and Kalan stepped out of it, accepting the mask without a word and donning it. There was something hasty about his movements. He said something to his servants and they all followed him as he left the laboratory.

  Cautiously Hawkmoon and Count Brass emerged. Both had unsheathed their swords.

  Assured that the laboratory was, indeed, completely deserted, they debated their next action.

  'Perhaps we should wait until Kalan returns and slay him on the spot,' Count Brass suggested, 'using his own machine for our escape.'

  'We do not know how to operate the machine,' Hawkmoon reminded his friend. 'No, I think we should learn more of this world and Kalan's plans before we consider killing him. For all we know he has other allies, more powerful than himself, who would continue to put his schemes into effect.'

  'That's fair enough,' Count Brass agreed. 'But this place makes me nervous. I've never been one to enjoy being underground. I prefer the open spaces. That's why I could never remain in one city for long.'

  Hawkmoon began to inspect Baron Kalan's machines. Many of them were familiar to him in appearance, but he could make out little of their functions. He wondered if he should destroy the machines first, but then he decided it would be wiser to learn for what purpose they were intended. They could produce a disaster by tampering with the kind of forces with which Kalan was experimenting.

  'With the right masks and clothes,' Hawkmoon said, as they both padded towards the door, 'we would have an improved chance of exploring this place undiscovered. I think we should make that objective our first priority.'

  Count Brass agreed.

  They opened the door of the laboratory and found themselves in a low-ceilinged passage. The smell was musty, the air stale. Once the whole of Londra had reeked of the same stink. But, now that he was able to inspect the murals and carvings on the walls more closely, Hawkmoon was certain this was not Londra. The absence of detail was most noticeable. Paintings were done in outline and then filled in with solid colours, not the subtle shades of the clever Granbretanian artists. And whereas colours had been clashed in old Londra with the intention of making an effect, these colours were merely poorly selected. It was as if someone who had only seen Londra for half-an-hour or so had tried to recreate it.

  Even Count Brass, who had only visited Granbretan once, on some diplomatic errand, noticed the contrast. On they crept, without encountering anyone, trying to determine which way Baron Kalan had gone, when all at once they had turned a corner in the passage and come face to face with two soldiers of the Mantis Order— King Huon's old Order—armed with long pikes and swords.

  Immediately, Count Brass and Hawkmoon took up a fighting stance, expecting the two soldiers to attack. The mantis-masks nodded on the men's shoulders, but they only stared at Count Brass and his companion, as if puzzled.

  One of the soldiers spoke in a vague, muffled voice from within his mantis-helm. 'Why do you go unmasked?' he said. 'Should this be?'

  His voice had a distant, dreamlike quality, not unlike that of Count Brass when Hawkmoon had first encountered him in the Kamarg.

  'Aye. It is correct,' said Hawkmoon. 'You are to give us your masks.'

  'But unmasking is forbidden in the passages!' said the second soldier in horror. His gauntleted hands went to his great-insect helm as if to protect it. Mantis eyes seemed to stare sardonically into Hawkmoon's.

  'Then we must fight you for them,' growled Count Brass. 'Draw your swords.'

  Slowly the two drew their swords. Slowly they assumed defensive positions.

  It was horrible work, killing those two, for they did not make any more than a token effort to defend themselves. They went down in the space of half-a-minute and Hawkmoon and Count Brass began immediately to strip them of their masks and their outer clothes of green silk and green velvet.

  They stripped the pair just in time. Hawkmoon was wondering what to do with the bodies when, suddenly,they vanished.

  Count Brass snorted suspiciously. 'More sorcery?'

  'Or an explanation of why they behaved so strangely,' said Hawkmoon thoughtfully. 'They vanished as Bowgentle, Oladahn and D'Averc vanished. The Mantis Order was ever the fiercest in Granbretan and those who belonged to it were arrogant, proud and quick to strike. Either those fellows were not really of Granbretan, but playing parts for Baron Kalan's benefit—or else they were from Granbretan, but in some kind of trance.'

  'They seemed to be in a dream, right enough,' agreed Count Brass.

  Hawkmoon adjusted his stolen mask upon his head. 'Best behave the same, if challenged,' he said. 'That, too, will be to our advantage.'

  Together they continued to make their way through the passages, moving at a measured pace, like that of patrolling soldiers.

  'At least,' said Count Brass in a low voice, 'we shall have little trouble with corpses if all those we slay disappear with such fortunate alacrity!'

  They paused at several doors and tried them, but all were secured. They passed many other masked men, from all the main orders—Pig, Vulture, Dragon, Wolf and the like—but saw no other members of the Order of the Snake. Members of this Order, they were sure, would lead them eventually to Kalan. It would also be useful to exchange mantis-masks for serpent masks at some stage. Finally they found themselves at a door larger than the others and this was guarded by two men who wore the same masks now worn by Hawkmoon and Count Brass. A guarded door was an important door, thought Hawkmoon. Behind it might lie something which would help answer the questions he had followed Kalan to solve. He thought quickly, saying in as dreamy a voice as he could manage:

  'We have orders to relieve you. You may return to your quarters now.'

  One of the guards spoke. 'Relieve us? Have we been here for a full period of duty, then? I thought it was but an hour. But then time . . .' He paused. 'It is all so strange.'

  'You are relieved,' said Count Brass, guessing Hawkmoon's plan. 'That is all we know.'

  Sluggishly the two guards saluted and marched away, leaving Hawkmoon and Count Brass to take up their positions.
r />   As soon as the guards were gone, Hawkmoon turned and tried the latch of the door. It was locked.

  Count Brass glanced around him, shuddering. 'This seems more of a true netherworld than the one I first found myself in,' he said.

  'I think you could be close to the truth,' Hawkmoon told him as he bent to inspect the lock. Like so many of the other artefacts here it was crude. He took out the emerald-pommelled poignard which he had got off the mantis-warrior. He inserted the point in the lock and shifted it about for several seconds before twisting it sharply. There was a click and the door swung open.

  The two companions stepped through.

  And both gasped in unison at what they saw.

  Chapter Two

  A Museum Of The Living And The Dead

  'King Huon!' Hawkmoon murmured. Quickly he closed the door behind him, looking up at the great globe suspended above his head. In the globe swam the wizened figure of the ancient king who had once spoken with the voice of a golden youth. 'I thought you slain by Meliadus!'

  A tiny whisper escaped the globe. It was almost a thought, so tenuous was it. 'Meliadus,' it said. 'Meliadus.'

  'The king dreams,' said the voice of Flana, Queen of Granbretan.

  And there she was, in her heron-mask, made up of fragments of a thousand jewels, in her lush brocade gown, coming slowly towards them.

  'Flana?'

  Hawkmoon moved towards her. 'How did you come to be here?'

  'I was born in Londra. Who are you? Though you be of the King-Emperor's own Order, you speak insolently to Flana, Countess of Kanbery.'

  'Queen Flana now,' said Hawkmoon.

  'Queen . . . queen . . . queen . . .' said the distant voice of King Huon from behind them.

  'King . . .' Another figure moved blindly past them. 'King Meliadus . . .'

  And Hawkmoon knew that if he tore off that wolfhelm from the figure he would see the face of Baron Meliadus, his old foe. And he knew that the eyes would be glazed, as Flana's eyes would be glazed. There were others in this room—all Dark Empire folk. Flana's old husband, Asrovak Mikosevaar; Shenegar Trott in his silver mask; Pra Flenn, Duke of Lakasdeh, in his grinning dragon-helm, who had died before his nineteenth birthday and had personally slain over a hundred men and women before his eighteenth. Yet, for all that this was an assembly of the fiercest of the Granbretanian warlords, none attacked. They hardly lived at all. Only Flana—who still lived in Hawkmoon's world—seemed to be able to frame a coherent sentence. The rest were like sleep-walkers, mumbling one or two words, but no more. And Hawkmoon's and Count Brass's entrance into this weird museum of the living and the dead had set them to babbling, like birds in an aviary.