The Chronicles of Castle Brass

by Michael Moorcock

  Ilian controlled herself. She found a lamp, found flint and tinder and lit the lamp while she took deep breaths and tried to rationalise what was happening to her. The shock of recognition had been strong - yet she could swear she had never seen the woman before.

  Ilian turned. The woman was dressed in a filthy white gown. She had evidently been kept prisoner here for some time. She began to try to struggle into a sitting position on the bed. Her hands were locked in front of her, in a complicated leather harness which also bound her throat, her legs and her feet.

  Ilian wondered if this were a madwoman. Perhaps it had been foolish to cut the gag without thinking. There was something wild about the woman's eyes, but again that could merely be because she had been captive so long.

  'Are you of Garathorm?' Ilian asked, holding up the lamp to peer once more at the woman's pale features.

  'Garathorm? This place? No.'

  'You seem familiar.'

  'You, also. Yet...'

  'Aye,' said Ilian feelingly. 'You have never seen me before either.'

  'My name is Yisselda of Brass. I am Baron Kalan's captive and have been since I came here.'

  'Why are you his prisoner?'

  'He is afraid I might escape and be seen. He wants me for himself. I seem to represent some sort of talisman for him. He has done me no great harm. Can you cut this harness, do you think?'

  Reassured by Yisselda of Brass's level tones, Ilian bent and sliced through the straps. Yisselda gasped as feeling returned to her limbs. 'I thank you.'

  'I am Ilian of Garathorm. Queen Ilian.'

  'King Pyran's daughter!' Yisselda seemed astonished. 'But Kalan drew your soul from you, did he not?'

  'So I gather. But I have a new soul now.'

  'Indeed?'

  Ilian smiled. 'Do not ask me to explain. So not all who came so suddenly to our world are evil.'

  'Most are those whom we should call evil. Most are pledged to Chaos, Kalan tells me, and believe they cannot be slain. But he hardly believes that theory himself. It is what he is told."

  Ilian was trembling, wondering why she had the impulse to embrace this woman, to hold her in a way that was more than comradely. She had never felt such impulses before. Her knees shook. Without thinking, she sat down on the bed.

  'Fate,' she murmured. 'They say I serve Fate. Do you know aught of that, Yisselda of Brass? I know your name so well -and that of Baron Kalan. It seems to me I have been searching for you - searching all my life - and yet it is not I who searched. Oh ...' She was close to fainting. She put a hand to her brow. 'This is horrifying.'

  'I understand you. Kalan thinks that his experiments in time distortion have created this situation. Our lives are mixed up so much. One possibility clashes with another. It must even be possible to meet oneself, under these conditions.'

  'Kalan was responsible for letting Ymryl and the rest through?'

  'So he believes. He spends his whole time trying to restore the balance which he himself disrupted. And I am important to him in his experiments. He has no wish to go with Ymryl on the morrow.'

  'Tomorrow? Where does Ymryl ride?'

  'Against the west. Against one called Arnald of Grovent, I understand.'

  'So they fight at last!' Ilian forgot everything but that fact for a moment. She was exhilarated. Their opportunity was coming sooner than she had hoped.

  'Baron Kalan is Ymryl's mascot,' said Yisselda. She had found a comb somewhere and was trying to comb out her tangled hair. 'Just as I am Kalan's. I survive thanks to a chain of superstition!'

  'And where is Kalan now?'

  'Doubtless in Ymryl's palace - your father's palace, is it not?'

  'It is. What does he there?"

  'Some of his experiments. Ymryl has set him up with a laboratory, though really Kalan prefers to work from here. He will take me with him when he works, sitting me down and talking to me as if I were a pet dog. It is the most attention he pays me. Needless to say I understand little of what he talks about. I was present, however, when he stole your soul. That was horrible. How did you recover it?"

  Ilian did not answer. 'How did he - steal my soul?'

  'With a jewel, similar to that which threatened to eat my Hawkmoon's brain when it was imbedded in his skull. A jewel of similar properties, at any rate ...'

  'Hawkmoon? That name ...'

  'Aye? You know Hawkmoon. How does he fare? Surely he is not in this world ...?

  'No - no. I do not know him. I do not know why I should. Yet it sounded so familiar."

  'You are unwell, Ilian of Garathorm?"

  'Aye. Aye. I could be.' Ilian felt faint. Doubtless the exertions she had had to make to escape Ymryl's soldiers had tired her more than she had at first realised. Again she made an effort to recover. 'This jewel, then? Kalan has it? And my soul, he believes, is in it?'

  'Yes. But he is plainly wrong. Somehow your soul was released from the jewel."

  'Plainly,' Ilian smiled grimly. 'Well, we must consider a means of escaping. You do not look fit enough to climb rooftops and swing through trees with me."

  'I can try,' said Yisselda. 'I am stronger than I seem.'

  'Then we must try, then. When do you expect Kalan's return?"

  'He only recently left.'

  'Then we have some time. I will use it in resting.' Ilian leaned back on the bed. 'My head aches so."

  Yisselda reached forward to massage Ilian's brow, but Ilian drew away with a gasp. 'No!' She licked dry lips. 'No. I thank you for your consideration.'

  Yisselda went to the still shuttered window and cautiously opened it a little, breathing in the cooler night air.

  'Kalan is to try to help Ymryl make contact with this black god of his, this Arioch.'

  'Whom Ymryl believes responsible for placing him here?'

  'Yes. Ymryl will blow that Yellow Horn he has and Kalan will try to concoct some form of spell. Kalan is cynical concerning their chances of raising the demon."

  'Ymryl's horn is dear to him. Does he never let it off his person?"

  'Never, so Kalan says. The only one who could make Ymryl give up his horn is Arioch himself."

  The time passed with painful slowness. While Ilian tried to rest, Yisselda extinguished the lamp and watched the streets, noticing that patrols of soldiers still searched there for Ilian. Some were even on the rooftops at one stage. But eventually they seemed to have given up the search and Yisselda went to rouse Ilian, who was by now sleeping fitfully.

  Yisselda shook Ilian's shoulder and Ilian shuddered, waking with a start.

  'They are gone,' said Yisselda. 'I think we can risk leaving. How shall we go? Into the street?'

  'No. But a coil of rope would help. Is there one in the house, do you think?'

  'I will see.'

  Yisselda returned in a few minutes with a length of rope coiled over her shoulder. 'It is the longest I could find. Is it strong enough?"

  'It will have to be.' Ilian smiled. She opened the window wide and looked up. The nearest large branch was some ten feet overhead. Ilian took the rope and made a noose at one end, coiling the rope so that it was the same circumference as the noose. Then she began to swing the coil round and round before releasing it suddenly.

  The noose settled over a branch, held, and Ilian tightened the knot.

  'You'll have to climb onto my back," Ilian told Yisselda, 'curling your legs around my waist and hanging on as hard as you can. Do you think you'll be able to?'

  'I must,' said Yisselda simply. She did as she was ordered and then Ilian pulled herself onto the window sill, took a good grip on the rope, turning it round her hand once or twice, and then flung herself out over the rooftops, narrowly missing the spire of one of the old trading halls. Her feet struck another branch and she dug in her heels, straining with all her might to get a belter grip on the branch above her. She was about to slip when Yisselda reached up and pulled herself onto the branch, leaning down to help Ilian after her. They lay panting on the great branch.

 
Ilian sprang up. 'Follow me,' she said. 'Keep your arms spread for balance. And keep moving."

  She began to run along the bole.

  And Yisselda, somewhat shakily, followed her.

  They were back at the camp by morning and they were jubilant.

  Katinka van Bak came out of the shack she had built for herself from old planks and she was delighted to see Ilian. "We feared for you,' she said. 'Even those who profess to hate you so. The others came back with the flame-lances. A good haul.'

  'Excellent. And I have more information.'

  'Good. Good. You'll want to breakfast - and rest, too, I should think. Who is this?' Katinka van Bak seemed to notice the woman in the white, soiled dress for the first time.

  'She is called Yisselda of Brass. She, like you, is not of Garathorm...'

  Ilian noticed the look of astonishment which appeared on Katinka's face then. Yisselda? Count Brass's daughter?'

  'Aye,' said Yisselda in some delight. 'Though Count Brass is dead - slain at the Battle of Londra.'

  'Not so! Not so! He dwells still at Castle Brass! So Hawkmoon was right. You are alive! This is the strangest thing I have yet to experience - but by far the most pleasurable.'

  'You have seen Dorian? How is he?'

  'Ah -' Katinka van Bak seemed to become evasive. 'He is well. He is well. He has been ill, but now all the portents are that he will recover.'

  'I wish it was possible to see him again. He is not in this plane?'

  'Unfortunately he could not be.'

  'How came you here? In the same manner as myself?’

  'Pretty much the same, aye.' Katinka van Bak turned to see that Jhary-a-Conel had emerged from one of the ebony houses still standing. He was rubbing sleep from his eyes and looked barely awake. 'Jhary. This is Yisselda of Brass. Hawkmoon was right.'

  'She is alive!' Jhary slapped his thigh, looking with some irony from Ilian to Yisselda and back again. 'Ha! This is the best I've ever known! Oh, dear!' And he burst into laughter which Ilian and Yisselda found inexplicable.

  Ilian felt anger rise in her. 'I become bored with your mysteries and your hints, Sir Jhary! I become bored with them!'

  'Aye!' Jhary continued to laugh. 'I think it is the best way to respond to it all, madam!'

  Book Three

  A Leavetaking

  Chapter One

  Sweet Battle,

  Triumphant Vengeance

  There were nearly a hundred of them now and most of them had flame-lances. They had been hastily trained in the use of the lances by Katinka van Bak and some of the lances were inclined to be faulty, for they were very old, but the weapons gave confidence to all who bore them.

  Ilian turned in her saddle to look back at her troops. Each man and woman was mounted, mostly on striding vayna birds. Each hailed the burning banner as she turned. The fiery thing, which burned without consuming the cloth, fluttered over her armoured head. It was their pride. And they were going to Virinthorm.

  Beneath the great, green trees of Garathorm they rode: Ilian, Katinka van Bak, Jhary-a-Conel, Yisselda of Brass, Lyfeth of Ghant, Mysenel of Hinn and the rest. All, save Katinka van Bak, were youthful.

  It seemed to Ilian that, while her own crimes had not been forgotten by those she led, she and her people were united again. But much would depend on how they fared in the battles which lay ahead.

  They rode through the morning and by the afternoon they had come in sight of Virinthorm.

  Spies had already reported the departure of Ymryl with his main force. He had left less than a quarter of his men behind to defend Virmthorm, not expecting any kind of full scale attack. Yet still those defenders were some five hundred strong and would have been more than sufficient to defeat Ilian's force, had they not been armed with flame-lances.

  Yet even the flame-lances only improved the chances of the Garathormians. It was by no means certain that they would defeat Ymryl's men. This, however, was the only chance they might have to try.

  And they sang as they rode. They sang the old songs of their land. Gay songs, full of their love for their rich, arboreal world. They hardly paused as they reached the suburbs of Virinthorm and spread out.

  Ymryl’s men had garrisoned themselves close to the centre of the town, near the large house which had once been the residence of Ilian's family, and which had, until lately, become Ymryl's palace.

  Ilian regretted that Ymryl himself was not there. She looked forward to taking her vengeance on him, should her schemes be successful.

  Now the hundred riders, thinly spread, had dismounted and situated themselves in a circle around the centre of the city. Some lay behind roughly thrown up barricades, others lay on roofs, while still others crouched in doorways. A hundred flame-lances were aimed into the city when Ilian rode out into the broad main avenue and cried:

  'Surrender in the name of Queen Ilian!'

  And her voice was high and proud.

  'Surrender, Ymryl's men! We have returned to claim our city.'

  The few who were on the streets turned to look in consternation, hands reaching for weapons. Men in every form of clothing, in all sorts of armour, in a score of different shapes, men with fur all over their bodies, men who were completely hairless, men with four arms or four legs, men with beastlike heads, men with tails or horns or tufted ears, men with hooves instead of feet, men with green, blue, red and black skins, men armed with bizarre weapons, the purpose of which was mysterious, men deformed, men who were dwarves and men who were giants, hermaphrodites, men with wings or with transparent skins, came pouring into the streets and saw Queen Ilian of Garathorm and laughed.

  A warrior with an orange beard which came to a point at his belt called out:

  'Ilian is dead. As you will be before another minute has passed.'

  In reply Ilian raised her flame-lance, touched the jewelled stud, and pierced the mans' forehead with a beam of red light, whereupon a dog-faced soldier threw a disc which howled and which Ilian was barely able to deflect by bringing up the small buckler she had on her right arm. She wheeled her horse around and dashed for cover. Behind her the defenders also sought cover as beams of red light darted at them from all around.

  For an hour the fight raged thus, with either side using power weapons from cover, while Katinka-van Bak rode from warrior to warrior, giving instructions to tighten the circle and contain the defenders in as small an area as possible. This they did, not without considerable difficulty, for though the enemy had fewer power weapons, they were more skilled in using them.

  Ilian climbed a rooftop to see how the battle went. She had lost about ten of her small band, but Ymryl's men had lost more. She counted at least forty corpses. But the alien soldiers were plainly grouping for a counter-attack. Many had mounted themselves on a variety of beasts, including some captured vayna.

  Ilian dropped back down to the ground and sought Katinka van Bak. 'They are planning to charge through, Katinka!'

  'Then they must be stopped,' said the warrior woman, firmly.

  Ilian got back onto her own vayna. The long-legged bird croaked as Ilian swung it round. It began to stride away to where Jhary-a-Conel had taken up his position in the window of a house looking towards the central square. 'Jhary! They charge!' she called.

  And then a packed mass of cavalry came howling along the avenue and it seemed to Ilian for a moment that only she stood against it.

  She raised her flame-lance, touched the stud. Ruby light flared, flickered from the hip, cut an erratic swathe across the bodies of the leading riders. In going down, they got in the way of those behind them and the force of the charge was weakened.

  But the lance was now all but useless. The light wavered, spread, merely burned the skins of the soldiers as the sun might burn them, and they came on.

  Ilian flung down the lance, drew her slender sword, took her long poignard in the hand that also held her reins, and urged the vayna forward. Behind her, in its saddle rest, the burning banner cracked and hissed as she gathered spe
ed.

  'For Garathorm!'

  And now she knew joy. A black joy. A terrible joy.

  'For Pyran and Bradne!'

  And her sword sliced through the transparent flesh of a ghostly creature who grinned at her and tried to slash her with steel claws.

  'For vengeance!'

  And how sweet it was, that vengeance. How satisfying, that blood-letting. So close to death was she, and yet she felt more alive than she had ever felt. This was her destiny - to bear a sword into battle - to fight - to kill.

  And as she fought it seemed she did not merely fight this battle but a thousand others. And in each battle she had another name, yet in each battle she felt the same grim elation.

  Around her the enemy roared and rattled and it seemed that a score of swords forever sought to slay her, but she laughed at them.

  And her laughter was a weapon. It chilled the blood of those she fought. It filled them with a great and unwholesome terror.

  'For Fate's soldier!' she heard herself shouting. 'For the Champion Eternal. For the Struggle Without End!' And she knew not the meaning of the words, though she knew she had cried them before and would cry them again, whether she survived this encounter or not.

  Now others were joining her. She saw Jhary-a-Conel’s yellow horse rearing and snorting and thrashing out with its hooves, striking down warriors on all sides. The horse seemed possessed of unnatural intelligence. Its actions were no mere flailing, no panicky defence. It fought aggressively, with its master. And it grinned, displaying crooked yellow teeth, cold yellow eyes, while its rider slashed this way and that with his sword, a small smile on his lips.

  And there was Katinka van Bak, tough, methodical and cool as she went about the business of slaying. She held a double-bladed battle-axe in one gloved hand, a spiked mace in the other, for she did not consider the situation suitable for the subtler sword-work. She pushed her heavy, stolid horse deep into the enemy and she chopped off limbs and crushed skulls just as surely as a housewife might prepare meat and vegetables for her husband's meal. And Katinka van Bak did not smile. She took her work seriously, doing what had to be done and feeling neither disgust nor relish.