The Chronicles of Castle Brass

by Michael Moorcock

  And then it seemed to Hawkmoon that a silence fell upon the Silver Bridge, that the clatter of the waggons and the hooves of the beasts disappeared, that the crying of the gulls ceased, that the sound of the waves went away, and he turned to mention this to Yisselda and she had gone. And he looked about him and he realized, in dawning terror, that he was quite alone on the bridge.

  There was a thin cry from very far away - a cry which might have been Yisselda calling to him - then that, too, was gone.

  And Hawkmoon made to wheel his horse about, to ride back the way he had come in the hope that, if he moved swiftly, he could rejoin Yisselda.

  But Hawkmoon's horse refused to be handled. It was snorting. It stamped at the metal of the bridge. It whinneyed.

  And Hawkmoon, betrayed, screamed a single, agonized word.

  'NO!'

  Chapter Three

  In The Mist

  ‘No!'

  It was another voice - a booming, pain-racked voice, far louder than Hawkmoon's, louder than thunder.

  And the bridge swayed and the horse reared and Hawkmoon was thrown heavily to the metal causeway. He tried to rise; he tried to crawl back to where he was sure he would find Yisselda.

  'Yisselda!' he cried.

  'Yisselda!'

  And wicked laughter sounded behind him.

  He turned his head, lying spreadeagled on the swaying bridge. He saw his horse, its eyes rolling, tumble over, slide to the edge, to be pinned against a rail, its legs kicking at the air.

  Now Hawkmoon tried to reach for the sword beneath his cloak, but he could not free it. It was pinned beneath him.

  The laughter came again, but its pitch and its tone changed; it was less confident. Then the voice gave out its bellowing echo:

  'No!'

  Hawkmoon knew a terrible fear, a fear greater than anything he had previously confronted. His impulse was to crawl away from the source of that fear, but he forced himself to turn his head again and look at the face.

  The face filled his whole horizon, glaring out of the mist which swirled around the swaying bridge. The dark face of his dreams, its eyes were filled with glaring menace, with a complicated terror of its own, and the huge lips formed the word which was a challenge, a command, a plea:

  'No!'

  Then Hawkmoon climbed to his feet and stood with his legs apart, balancing himself, staring back at the face, staring by virtue of an effort of will which astonished him.

  "Who are you?' said Hawkmoon. His voice was thin, the mist seemed to absorb the words. 'Who are you? Who are you?'

  'No!'

  The face was apparently without a body. It was beautiful and sinister and of a dark, indeterminate colour. The lips were a glowing unhealthy red; the eyes were perhaps black, perhaps blue, perhaps brown, and there was a kind of gold in the pupils.

  Hawkmoon knew that the creature was in torment, but he knew, too, that it menaced him, that it would destroy him if it could. Again his hand went to his sword, but fell away as he realized how useless the blade would be, what an empty gesture it would be if he drew it.

  'SWORD ...' said the being. 'SWORD ...' The word had considerable meaning. 'sword ...' Once again its tone changed, to that of an unrequited lover, pleading for the return of the object of its love and hating itself for its wretchedness, hating, too, that which it loved. There was a threat in its voice; there was death there.

  'elric? urlik? me ... I was a thousand ... elric? me ...?'

  Was this some fearful manifestation of the Champion Eternal - of Hawkmoon himself? Did he look upon his own soul?

  'ME . . . THE TIME . . . THE CONJUNCTION ... I CAN HELP . . .'

  Hawkmoon dismissed the thought. It was possible that the being represented something within himself, but it was not the whole of him. He knew that it had a separate identity and he knew, also, that it needed flesh, it needed form, and that was what he could give it. Not his own flesh, but something which was his.

  'Who are you?' Hawkmoon felt strength enter his voice as he forced himself to look upon the dark, glaring face.

  'ME ...'

  The eyes focused on Hawkmoon and they glowed with hatred. Hawkmoon's instinct was to step backward, but he held his ground and returned the glare of those evil, gigantic eyes. The lips snarled and revealed jagged, flaming teeth. Hawkmoon trembled.

  Words came to Hawkmoon and he spoke them firmly, though he did not know their origin, or their import, only that they were the right words. 'You must go,' he said. 'You have no place here.'

  'I MUST SURVIVE - THE CONJUNCTION - YOU WILL SURVIVE WITH ME, ELRIC ...'

  'I am not Elric.'

  'you are elric!'

  'I am Hawkmoon.’

  'WHAT OF IT? A MERE NAME. IT IS AS ELRIC THAT I LOVE YOU MOST. I HAVE HELPED YOU SO WELL . . .’

  'You mean to destroy me,' said Hawkmoon, 'that I do know, I'll accept no help from you. It is your help which has chained me through millennia. It will be the last action of the Champion Eternal to take part in your destruction!"

  'you know me?'

  'Not yet. Fear the time when I shall know you!'

  'ME ..."

  'You must go. I begin to recognize you.'

  'NO!'

  'You must go.' Hawkmoon felt his voice begin to quaver and he doubted if he could look upon that terrible face for another moment.

  'Me ...' The voice was fainter, it threatened less, it pleaded more.

  "You must go.'

  'Me ...'

  Then Hawkmoon summoned all that remained of his will and he laughed at it. 'Go!'

  Hawkmoon spread his arms wide as he began to fall, for face and bridge had vanished at the same moment.

  He fell through chilling mist, head over heels, his cloak flapping about him and tangling itself in his legs - through chilling mist and into cold water. He gasped. His mouth filled with the salt of the sea. He coughed and his lungs were full of shards of ice. He forced the water out, striking upwards, trying to reach the surface. He began to drown.

  His body heaved as it tried to draw in air and force out water, but there was only water for it to breath. Once he opened his eyes and saw his hands, and his hands were the bone-white hands of a corpse; white hair drifted about his face. He knew his name was no longer Hawkmoon, so he closed his eyes tight shut again and repeated his old battle cry, the battle cry of his ancestors which he had voiced a hundred times in his wars against the Dark Empire.

  Hawkmoon... Hawkmoon... Hawkmoon.. .

  'Hawkmoon!'

  This was not his own shout. It came from above him, from out of the mist. He forced his body to the surface. He blew the water from his lungs. He gasped at the freezing air.

  'Hawkmoon!'

  There was a dark outline on the surface of the ocean. There was a regular splashing sound.

  'Here!' cried Hawkmoon.

  The small rowing boat came slowly towards him, its oars rising and falling. A small figure sat in it. He was swathed in a heavy sea-cloak, there was a wide-brimmed, dripping hat obscuring the greater part of his features, but the grin on his lips was unmistakable, and unmistakable, too, was his companion who sat in the prow of the boat looking with apparent concern in its yellow eyes at Hawkmoon. It was a very wet little creature, that black and white cat. It spread its wings once, to shake moisture from them. It mewed.

  Hawkmoon clutched the wooden side of the boat and Jhary-a-Conel methodically shipped his oars before reaching carefully down to help the Duke of Koln aboard.

  'It is wise for such as me to trust to his instincts,' said Jhary-a-Conel, handing Hawkmoon a flask of some strong spirit. 'Do you know where we are, Dorian Hawkmoon?'

  Unable to speak for the water still in his lungs and stomach, Hawkmoon lay back in the boat and shivered and vomited while Jhary-a-Conel, self-styled Companion to Heroes, began once more to row.

  'I thought it first a river, then a lake,’ said Jhary conversationally, 'then I decided it must be a sea. You have swallowed a great deal of it. What do you say?'


  Hawkmoon spat the last of the water over the side. He wondered at his impulse to laugh. 'A sea,' he said. 'How came you to be boating on it?'

  'An impulse.' Jhary seemed to notice the small black and white cat for the first time and showed surprise. 'Aha! So I am Jhary-a-Conel, am I?'

  'You were uncertain?'

  'I think I had another name when I began to row. Then the mist came.' Jhary shrugged. 'No matter. For me, it's a familiar enough event. Well, well, Hawkmoon, how came you to be swimming in this sea?'

  'I fell from a bridge,' said Hawkmoon simply, not wishing, for the moment, to discuss the experience. He did not bother to ask Jhary-a-Conel whether they were nearer to France or to Granbretan, particularly since it was just beginning to dawn on him that he had no business remembering Jhary's name or feeling such a close familiarity with him. 'I met you in the Bulgar Mountains, did I not? With Katinka van Bak?'

  'I seem to recall something of that. You were Ilian of Garathorm for a while, then Hawkmoon again. How swiftly your names change, these days! You threaten to confuse me, Duke Dorian!'

  'You say my names change. You have known me in different guises?'

  'Certainly. Enough for this particular conversation to have a boring familiarity.' Jhary-a-Conel grinned.

  ‘Tell me some of those names.'

  Jhary frowned. 'My memory is poor on such matters. Sometimes it seems to me I can recall a great deal of past (and future) incarnations. At other times, like this one, my mind refuses to consider anything but immediate problems.'

  'I find that inconvenient,' said Hawkmoon. He looked up, as if he might see the bridge, but there was only mist. He prayed that Yisselda was safe, that she was still on her way to Londra.

  'Oh, so do I, Duke Dorian. I wonder if I have any business here at all, you know.' Jhary-a-Conel pulled strongly at his hat.

  "What of the "Conjunction of the Million Spheres"? Does your faulty memory serve you with any information concerning that phrase?'

  Jhary-a-Conel frowned. 'It rings a distant bell. An event of some importance, I should have thought. Tell me more.'

  ‘There is no more I can tell you. I had hoped...'

  ‘If I should remember anything, I will tell you.'

  The cat mewled again and Jhary craned his head around, "Aha! Land of some sort. Let us hope it is friendly.'

  'You have no idea where we are, then?'

  'None at all, Duke Dorian.' The bottom of the boat scraped against shingle. 'Somewhere in one of the Fifteen Planes, it's to be hoped.'

  Chapter Four

  The Gathering Of The Wise

  They had walked for five miles over chalky hills and seen no sign that this land was inhabited. Hawkmoon had told Jhary-a-Conel of everything that had befallen him, of everything which puzzled him. He remembered little of the adventure of Garathorm and Jhary remembered more, speaking of the Lords of Chaos, of Limbo and the perpetual struggle between the Gods, but all their conversation, as conversation often will, caused further confusion and at length they agreed to put an end to their various speculations.

  'Only one thing I know, and I know that in my bones,' said Jhary-a-Conel, 'and that is that you need not fear for your Yisselda. I must admit that I am, by nature, optimistic - against considerable evidence on occasion - and I know that in this venture we stand to win much or lose all. That creature you encountered on the bridge must have considerable power if he could wrench you from your own world, and there is no question, of course, that he means you ill, but I have no inkling of his identity or when he will find us again. It seems to me that your ambition to find Tanelorn is pertinent.'

  'Aye,’ Hawkmoon looked around him. They stood on the crown of one of many low hills. The sky was clearing and the mist had vanished altogether and there was an eery silence and the landscape was remarkable in that all that seemed to live was the grass itself; there were no birds, no signs of the kind of wildlife which might be expected to flourish here in the absence of man. ‘Yet our chances of finding Tanelorn seem singularly poor at this particular moment, Jhary-a-Conel.'

  Jhary reached up to his shoulder to stroke the black and white cat which had sat there patiently since they had begun their march inland. 'I am bound to agree,' he said. 'Nonetheless it seems to me that our coming to this silent land was not merely fortuitous. We are bound to have friends, you know, as well as enemies.'

  'Sometimes I doubt the worth of the kind of friends you mean,' Hawkmoon said bitterly, remembering Orland Fank and the Runestaff. 'Friends or enemies - we are still their pawns,'

  'Well,' said Jhary-a-Conel with a grin, 'not pawns, perhaps -you must judge your worth better than that - why, I myself am at least a knight!'

  'My objection,' said Hawkmoon firmly, 'is to being placed on the board at all.'

  'Then it is for you to remove yourself from it,' Jhary said mysteriously, adding: 'Even if it should mean the destruction of the board itself.' He refused to amplify this remark, saying that it was intuition, not logic, which had led him to make it. But the remark had considerable resonance in Hawkmoon's mind and, oddly, it improved his spirits considerably. With increased energy, he set off again, taking such great strides that Jhary was hard put to keep up with him and soon began to complain, begging Hawkmoon to slow a little.

  "We are not exactly certain where we are going, after all,' said Jhary.

  Hawkmoon laughed. 'Indeed! But at this moment, Jhary-a-Conel, I care not if we head for Hell!'

  The low hills rolled on in all directions and by nightfall their legs were aching greatly and their stomachs felt exceptionally empty and still there was no sign that this world was populated by any living thing but themselves.

  'We should be grateful, I suppose,' said Hawkmoon, 'that the weather is reasonably clement.'

  ‘Though dull,' added Jhary. 'Neither hot nor cold. Could this be some pleasanter corner of Limbo, I wonder.'

  Hawkmoon's attention was no longer with his friend. He was peering through the dusk. 'Look, Jhary. Yonder. Do you see something?'

  Jhary followed Hawkmoon's pointing hand. He screwed up his eyes. 'On the brow of the hill?'

  'Aye. Is it a man?"

  'I think it is.' Impulsively, Jhary cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting: 'Hey! Can you see us? Are you a native of these parts, sir?’

  Suddenly the figure was very much closer. It had an aura of black fire flickering around its whole body. It was clad in black, shining stuff that was not metal. Its dark face was hidden by a high collar, but enough was visible for Hawkmoon to recognize it.

  'Sword...' said the figure. 'Me,' it said. 'Elric.'

  'Who are you?" This was Jhary speaking. Hawkmoon could not speak - his throat was cramped, his lips dry. 'Is this your world?'

  Fierce agony burned in the eyes; fierce hatred burned there. The figure made a motion towards Jhary - a belligerent motion as if he would tear the little man apart - but then something stopped him. He drew back. He looked at Hawkmoon again. He was snarling. 'Love,' he said. 'Love.' He spoke the word as if it was new to him, as if he were trying to learn it. The black flame around his body flared, flickered and dimmed, like a breeze-blown candle. He gasped. He pointed at Hawkmoon. He raised his other hand, as if to bar Hawkmoon's path. 'Do not go. We have been too long together. We cannot part. Once I commanded. Now I plead with you. What have I done for you but help you in all your many manifestations? Now they have taken my form away. You must find it, Elric. That is why you live again.'

  'I am not Elric. I am Hawkmoon.'

  'Ah, yes. I remember now. The jewel. The jewel will do. But the sword is better.' The beautiful features writhed in pain. The horrid eyes glared, so filled with anguish that it was plain they could not see Hawkmoon at that moment. The fingers curled like hawk's claws. The body shuddered. The flame waned.

  'Who are you?' said Hawkmoon this time.

  'I have no name, unless you give me one. I have no form, unless you find it for me. I have only power. Ah! And pain!" The figure's features wr
ithed again. 'I need ... I need...'

  Jhary made an impatient movement towards, his hip, but Hawkmoon's hand stayed him. 'No. Do not draw it.'

  'The sword,' said the creature eagerly.

  'No,' said Hawkmoon quietly. And he did not know what he refused the creature. It was dark now, but the figure's darker aura pierced the ordinary blackness of the night,

  'A sword!' It was a demand. A scream. 'A sword!'

  For the first time, Hawkmoon realized that the creature had no weapons of its own. 'Find arms, if you wish them,' he said. 'You shall not have ours.'

  Lightning leaped suddenly from the ground around the creature's feet. It gasped. It hissed. It shrieked. 'You will come to me! You will need me! Foolish Elric! Silly Hawkmoon! Stupid Erekose! Pathetic Corum! You will need me!'

  The scream seemed to last for several moments, even after the figure had vanished.

  'It knows all your names,' said Jhary-a-Conel. 'Do you know what it is called?'

  Hawkmoon shook his head. 'Not even in my dreams.'

  'It is new to me,' Jhary told him. 'In all my many lives I do not think I have encountered it before. My memory is never good, at the best of times, but I would know if I had seen that being before. This is a strange adventure, an adventure of unusual significance.'

  Hawkmoon interrupted his friend's musings. He pointed down into the valley. 'Would you say that was a fire, Jhary? A camp fire. Perhaps we are to meet the denizens of this world at long last.'

  Without debating the wisdom of approaching the fire directly, they began to plod down the hill, coming at last to the floor of the valley. The fire was only a short distance from them now.

  As they approached Hawkmoon saw that the fire was surrounded by a group of men, but what was peculiar about the scene was that each of the men was mounted on a horse and each horse faced inward, so that the group made a perfect, silent circle. So still were the horses, so stolidly did the riders sit in their saddles, that if it had not been for the sight of their breath steaming from their lips, Hawkmoon would have guessed them to be statues.