The Chronicles of Castle Brass

by Michael Moorcock

  Ilian wendered at the relish she herself felt. Her whole body tingled with pleasure. She should have been weary, but instead she felt fresher than she had ever felt before.

  'For Garathorm! For Pyran! For Bradne!' 'For Bradne!' echoed a voice behind her. 'And for Ilian!' It was Lyfeth of Ghant, wielding her sword with a mixture of delicacy and ferocity which came close to matching Ilian's own. And nearby was Yisselda of Brass, proving herself an experienced warrior, using the spike on her shield boss almost as effectively as she used her sword.

  'What women we are!' cried Ilian. 'What fighters!' She saw how disconcerted the enemy warriors were to discover the number of women who had come against them. There were few worlds, it seemed, where women fought like men. It had never been so on Garathorm, before the coming of Katinka van Bak.

  Ilian saw Mysenal of Hinn grin briefly at her, his eyes shining as he rode past her towards a cluster of Ymryl's warriors whose retreat had been cut off by three or four flame-lance beams darting from the tops of nearby houses.

  Two or three buildings had been ignited by the power weapons and smoke was beginning to curl through the streets. For a moment Ilian was half-blinded and found herself coughing as the acrid stuff entered her throat. Then she was through the cloud and joining Mysenal in his attack on the enemy.

  Though she now bled from a dozen minor cuts and grazes, Ilian was tireless. She unhorsed one rider with a blow of her buckler and in the same movement swept her sword round to take a green-furred dwarf through the roof of his gaping mouth so that the point ran deep into his brain. As the dwarf fell, Ilian twisted the sword from his corpse in time to parry an axe which had been thrown at her by a warrior in purple armour whose pointed steel teeth clashed as he tried to draw back his arm to thrust at her with the lance he held in his other hand. Ilian leaned out in her saddle and sliced the hand from the wrist so that fist and spear dropped to the ground. The stump, spouting blood, continued the motion of casting the spear and only then did the warrior with the steel teeth realise what had happened to him and he moaned. But Ilian was riding past him, to where one of her girl warriors stood over the corpse of her dead vayna desperately trying to ward off the blows of three men with reptilian skins (but who were otherwise dressed dissimilarly) who were determined to slay her. Ilian clove the skull of one reptile man, smashed another unconscious so that he fell backward across his horse's rump, and pierced the heart of the last, clearing a way for the girl who darted her a quick smile of gratitude before picking up her flame-lance and running for an open doorway.

  And then Ilian was in the square with a score of her warriors at her back and she called out jubilantly:

  'We are through!'

  Men on foot came running from every house then, those who had not taken part in the cavalry charge, and soon Ilian was surrounded again.

  And soon Ilian was laughing again, as life after life was extinguished by her sparkling sword.

  The sun was setting.

  Ilian cried to her warriors. 'Hasten now! Let us finish this before the night falls and makes our work more difficult.'

  The remnants of the enemy cavalry had been driven back into the square. The remnants of the infantry were falling back towards the great house, the house Ymryl had called his 'palace' and where Ilian had been born. It was also the house where she had shuddered, screamed and called out the hiding place of her brother.

  For a moment Ilian's joy was replaced by a feeling of black despair, and she paused. The sounds of the battle seemed to fade. The whole scene became remote. And she remembered the face of Ymryl, almost boyish in seriousness, leaning forward and saying to her: 'Where is he? Where is Bradne?'

  And she had told him.

  Ilian shuddered. She lowered her sword, oblivious to the danger which still threatened her from all sides. Five warped creatures, their bodies and faces covered in huge warts, flung themselves upwards at her, hands clutching. She felt sharp nails dig through the links of her mail. She looked at them absently.

  'Bradne ...' she murmured.

  'Are you wounded, girl!' Katinka van Bak appeared, and an axe bit into a skull, a mace crunched into a shoulder. The warted ones squealed. 'Are you dazed?'

  Ilian forced herself from the trance, using her own sword to hack down a wart-covered body. 'Only for a moment,' she said.

  'There's about a hundred left!' Katinka van Bak said. 'They've barricaded themselves in your father's mansion. I doubt if we'll have winkled them out before nightfall.'

  'Then we must fire the building,' said Ilian coldly. ‘We must burn them.'

  Katinka frowned. 'I like not that. Even these should have the opportunity to surrender...'

  'Burn them and burn the building. Burn it!' Ilian wheeled her vayna about to look around the square. It was piled with corpses. About fifty of her own folk still remained alive. 'It will save more fighting, will it not, Katinka van Bak?'

  'It will, but...'

  'And spare the lives of some of our folk who still survive?'

  'Aye ...' Katinka tried to meet Ilian's eyes, but Ilian turned her face away. 'Aye. But what of the building itself. Your ancestors have dwelled in it for generations. It is the finest building in all Virinthorm. There's scarcely a finer in the whole of Garathorm. The woods of its construction are rare. Many of the varieties of tree which went to build it are now extinct...'

  'Let it burn. I could not live there again.'

  Katinka sighed. 'I will give the order, though it's not to my liking. Cannot I offer our enemies a chance to surrender to us?'

  'They gave us no such chance.'

  'But we are not them. Morally...'

  'I'll hear nothing of morality for the moment, thank you.'

  Katinka van Bak rode to do Queen Ilian's bidding.

  Chapter Two

  An Impossible Death

  They were grim-faced, those men and women, as they stood with their hands resting on their weapons, their faces stained red by the firelight, and watched Pyran's mansion burning in the blackness of the night, smelled the smell which came from the pyre, listened to the thin, horrible sounds that still issued through the thick, black smoke from time to time.

  'It is just,' said Ilian of Garathorm.

  'But there are other forms of justice," said Katinka van Bak in a quiet voice. 'You cannot burn away the guilt you feel, Ilian.'

  'Can I not, madam?' Ilian laughed harshly. 'Yet how do you explain the satisfaction I feel?'

  'I am not used to this,' said Katinka van Bak. She spoke for Ilian's ears alone; she spoke reluctantly. 'I've witnessed such acts of vengeance before, yet I like not the sense of unease I feel now. You have become cruel, Ilian.'

  'It is ever the fate of the Champion,' said another voice. It was Jhary's. 'Ever. Do not fret, Katinka van Bak. The Champion must always seek to rid himself - or herself - of a certain ambiguous burden. And one of the means the Champion employs is deliberate cruelty - actions which go against the dictates of the Champion's conscience. Ilian thinks she bears only the guilt of her brother's betrayal. It is not so. It is a guilt which you and I, Katinka van Bak, could never experience. And we should thank all our gods for that!'

  Ilian shuddered. She had barely heard Jhary's words, but she was disturbed by their import.

  With a shrug, Katinka van Bak turned away. 'As you say, Jhary. You know more of such matters than do I. And there would be no Ilian at all to fight Ymryl if it were not for your knowledge.' She stalked off into the smoky shadows.

  Jhary stood beside Ilian for a while. Then he, too, left her alone, staring into the blazing ruins of her old home.

  The cries died and the stink of burning flesh faded until the sweeter odours of the wood became predominant. Ilian felt drained of life. And as the blaze subsided, she moved closer, as if seeking warmth, for there was an awful chill in her bones now, though the night was not cold.

  Still she saw Ymryl's sober features asking her that question. Still she heard her own voice replying.

  When Jhary found
her it was close to dawn and she was trampling through the blackened bones, the cinders and the hot ash, kicking at a charred skull here and a broken rib cage there.

  'News,' said Jhary.

  She looked out at him through her bleak eyes.

  'News of Ymryl. He was successful in his war. He has slain Arnald and has heard what happened here last night. He's returning.'

  Ilian drew deeply of the acrid air. 'Then we must prepare,' she said.

  'With half our force remaining, we shall be hard-pressed to stand against Ymryl's army. He now has Arnald's strength, also - or what remains of it. At least two thousand warriors come against us! Perhaps it would be better tactics to return to the, trees, harry them from time to time...'

  'We shall continue with the plan we originally devised’ said Ilian.

  Jhary-a-Conel shrugged. 'Very well.'

  "Have Ymryl's flame-cannon been found?'

  'They have. Hidden in cellars in a wine-press west of here. And Katinka van Bak saw that they were set up in a defensive ring during the night. Others are mounted to cover each of the main thoroughfares into the centre of the city. It is as well we acted swiftly. I for one did not expect Ymryl to return so soon.'

  Ilian began to wade through the ashes. 'Katinka van Bak is an experienced general.'

  'We are lucky that she is,' said Jhary.

  Soon after midday the scouts came back with news that Ymryl was using similar tactics to Ilian's in approaching the city, closing in from all sides. Ilian prayed that Ymryl's scouts had not seen the hastily concealed flame-cannon. She had put about half her force to operating the power weapons. The others she had positioned in hiding elsewhere.

  About an hour later, the first wave of cavalry, all shining armour and fluttering pennants, came thundering down the four broad avenues which led to the city square.

  The square itself was apparently deserted, save for the corpses which had been left there.

  The cavalry's tempo began to slacken as the first riders saw what lay ahead and became confused.

  From somewhere high overhead there came the silvery note of a horn.

  And flame-cannon roared.

  And where the cavalry had been, in all four quarters, was burning dust, embers drifting in the air, ash settling on the streets.

  Ilian, hidden in the trees, smiled, remembering how those same flame-cannon had cut down her own folk.

  The odds against her had now been improved by a matter of some several hundred, but the flame-cannon could not be used again, for they had to be filled once more with the substance which fuelled them and that substance required delicate handling and much time was involved in pouring it, drop by drop, into the chambers. Ilian saw those who had operated the cannon spring up and run back to the square, disappearing into buildings.

  Silence fell again over Virinthorm.

  Then, from the west, came a clattering of hooves. The leaf-filtered sunlight flashed on jewelled masks, on bright horse-armour.

  From her own position in a tree some hundred yards away, Katinka van Bak called:

  'It is Kalan and a Dark Empire force. They have flame weapons, too."

  Baron Kalan's snake mask glittered as he rode at headlong speed down the broad avenue. From the houses came the thin, red beams of light, issuing from Ilian's remaining flame-lances. Several of the beams seemed to pass through Kalan's body without harming him and Ilian thought that her eyes deceived her. Even the sorcerer could not be impervious to those deadly beams.

  Others fell, however, before their comrades had time to return the fire, aiming their flame-lances at random in the general direction of the houses from which the attacks had come until the air was a lattice of ruby rays.

  And still Kalan rode straight for the square, his horse panting as he spurred it until its blood spurted from its flanks.

  Kalan was laughing. It was a laugh that was familiar to Ilian and she could not place it for a moment until she remembered that it was not unlike that laughter she had herself shouted during the previous day's battle.

  Kalan rode until he came to the square and then his laughter gave way to a wail of rage as he saw the remains of the great mansion.

  'My laboratories!'

  He dismounted from his horse and walked into the ruins, staring about him, oblivious to any danger which might threaten him, while behind him his men fought a fierce battle with Ilian's warriors who had emerged from the houses and were engaging them hand to hand.

  Ilian watched him. She was fascinated. What did he seek?

  Two of Ilian's warriors detached themselves from the main party and came running at Kalan. He turned when he heard them and again he laughed, drawing his sword. The laughter echoed eerily in his snake helm.

  'Leave me alone,' he called to the warriors. 'You cannot harm me.'

  And now Ilian gasped. She saw one of the warriors thrust his sword into Kalan. She saw the point emerge on the other side of the sorcerer's body. She saw Kalan back away, slashing at his attacker with his own sword, cutting a deep wound in the man's shoulder. But Kalan was unwounded. The warrior groaned. Impatiently, Kalan drove his sword into the warrior's throat so that he dropped into the ashes of the mansion. The other warrior hesitated before striking at Baron Kalan, driving at the Dark Empire Lord's unarmoured forearm. It was a blow which should have shorn the limb from Kalan, but again Kalan was completely unhurt. At this the warrior backed off. Ignoring him, Kalan continued his frantic search amongst the charred corpses and the embers, calling back to the warrior:

  'I cannot be slain. Do not waste my time and I shall not waste yours. There is something I seek here. What fool can have wrought such unnecessary destruction?' And when the warrior remained where he was, the serpent helm lifted and Kalan said, as if explaining to a stupid child: 'I cannot be slain. There is only one man who can slay me in all the infinite cosmos. And I do not see him here. Begone!'

  Ilian sympathised with her warrior as she watched him stumble away.

  And then Kalan chuckled. 'I have it!' He bent and picked something from the dust.

  Ilian swung down from the trees and dropped into the square, confronting Kalan across a sea of corpses.

  'Baron Kalan?'

  He looked up. 'I have it ..." He made to show it to her and then he hesitated. 'What? It cannot be! Have all my powers deserted me, then?"

  'You thought you had slain me?' Ilian began to advance towards him. She had seen that he was invulnerable, yet she felt she had to confront him, for she was moved by another of those strange impulses she could not explain. 'Ilian of Garathorm?'

  'Slain? Nonsense. It was much subtler. The jewel ate your soul. It was my finest creation of that sort, more sophisticated than anything else I have invented. It was meant for someone much more important than you, but the situation demanded that I use it, if I was not to die by Ymryl's hand.'

  From the distance now came the sounds of battle. Ilian knew that her folk were engaging Ymryl's army. Her step did not falter as she continued to walk towards Kalan.

  'I have much to avenge myself for on you, Baron Kalan,' she said.

  'You cannot kill me, madam, if that's what you mean,' he told her. 'You cannot do that.'

  'But I must try.'

  The Serpent Lord shrugged. 'If you must. But I would rather know how your soul escaped from my gem. I had every indication that it was trapped there for eternity. And with such a gem I could have pursued still more complicated experiments. How did it escape?'

  Someone called across from the far side of the square. 'It did not, Baron Kalan. It did not escape!' It was Jhary-a-Conel's voice.

  The serpent mask turned. "What do you mean?'

  'Did you not understand the nature of the soul you sought to imprison in your gem?'

  'Nature? How-?'

  'Do you know the legend of the Champion Eternal?'

  'I have read something of it, aye ...' The serpent mask turned from Jhary to Ilian, from Ilian to Jhary. And still Ilian continued to pace towards Baron Kalan.r />
  'Then recall what you read.'

  And Ilian stood before Baron Kalan of Vitall and with a movement of her sword she had swept the serpent helm from his shoulders to reveal his pale, middle-aged face with its whispy white beard, its thinning hair. Kalan blinked and made to cover his face, then he dropped his hands to his side, his sword hanging by its wrist-thong, one fist bunched around the thing he had sought among the ruins.

  Kalan said softly: 'You still cannot slay me, Ilian of Garathorm. And even if you could, it would result in terrible consequences. Let me go. Or hold me prisoner, if you like. I have matters to consider ...'

  'Put up your sword, Baron Kalan, and defend yourself.'

  'I would be reluctant to slay you,' said Kalan, his voice becoming harsher, 'for you offer an intriguing mystery to a man of science, but I shall kill you, Ilian, if you continue to plague me.'

  'And I shall kill you, if I can.'

  'I told you,' said Kalan reasonably, 'that I can only be slain by one creature in the entire multiverse. And that creature is not yourself. Besides, more than you realise depends upon my remaining alive . ..'

  'Defend yourself!'

  Kalan shrugged and held up his sword.

  Ilian thrust. Kalan parried carelessly. Her blade continued on its course, deflected only a fraction, and her point entered his flesh. Kalan's eyes widened.

  'Pain!' he hissed in astonishment. 'It is pain!'

  Ilian was almost as surprised as Kalan to see the blood flowing. Kalan staggered back, looking down at his wound. 'It is not possible,' he said firmly. 'It is not.'

  And Ilian thrust again, this time striking directly at his heart as Kalan said: 'Only Hawkmoon can kill me. Only he. It is impossible ...'

  And he fell backwards in the ashes, causing a small cloud of black dust to spurt up around him. The look of astonishment was still printed on his dead features.

  'Now we are both avenged, Baron Kalan,' said Ilian in a voice she did not recognise as her own.

  She bent to see what the baron had clutched in his hand, prising it from the fingers.