The machine-creature cringed. Its whine became placatory, fearful. It turned its head on one side as if it heard a voice which none of the others could hear.
Count Brass rose, at last, to his feet and wearily prepared himself again to fight the monster.
Then, with an enormous crash which made the earth shake, the beast fell and the bright colours of its scales became dull as if suddenly rusted. It did not move.
'What?' Count Brass's deep voice was puzzled. 'Did we will it to death?'
Hawkmoon began to laugh as he noticed the faintest of outlines begin to appear against the clear, desert sky. 'Someone might have done,' he said.
Bowgentle gasped as he, too, noticed the outlines. 'What is it? The ghost of a city?'
'Almost.'
Count Brass growled. He sniffed and hefted his sword. 'I like this new danger no better.'
'It should not be a danger—to us,' said Hawkmoon. 'Soryandum is returning.'
Slowly they saw the outlines grow firmer until soon a whole city lay spread across the desert. An ancient city. A ruined city.
Count Brass cursed and stroked his red moustache, his stance still that of one prepared for an attack.
'Sheath your sword, Count Brass,' Hawkmoon said. 'This is Soryandum that we sought. The Wraith-folk, those ancient immortals of whom I told you, have come to our rescue. This is lovely Soryandum. Look.'
And Soryandum was lovely, for all that she lay in ruins. Her moss-grown walls, her fountains, her tall, broken towers, her blossoms of ochre, orange and purple, her cracked, marble pavements, her columns of granite and obsidian—all were beautiful. And there was an air of tranquillity about the city, even about the birds which nested in her time-worn houses, the dust which blew through her deserted streets.
'This is Soryandum,' said Hawkmoon again, almost in a whisper.
They stood in a square, beside the dead beast of metal.
Count Brass was the first to move, crossing the weedgrown pavement and touching a column. 'It is solid enough,' he grunted. 'How can this be?'
'I have ever rejected the more sensational claims of those who believe in the supernatural,' said Bowgentle. 'But now I begin to wonder . . .'
'This is science that has brought Soryandum here,' Hawkmoon said. 'And it is science that took her away. I know. I supplied the machine the Wraith-folk needed, for it is impossible for them to leave their city now. These folk were like us once, but over the centuries, according to a process I cannot begin to understand, they have rid themselves of physical form and have become creatures of mind alone. They can take physical shape when they desire it and they have greater strength than most mortals. They are a peaceful people—and as beautiful as this city of theirs.'
'You are most flattering, old friend,' said a voice from the air.
'Rinal?' said Hawkmoon, recognising the voice. 'Is that you?'
'It is I. But who are your companions? Our instruments are confused by them. It is for this reason that we were reluctant to reveal either ourselves or our city, in case they should have deceived you in some way into leading them to Soryandum when they had evil designs against our city.'
'They are good friends,' said Hawkmoon, 'but not of this time. Is that what confuses your instruments, Rinal?'
'It could be. Well, I shall trust you Hawkmoon, for I have reason to. You are a welcome guest in Soryandum, for it is thanks to you that we still survive.'
'And it is thanks to you that I survive.' Hawkmoon smiled. 'Where are you Rinal?'
The figure of Rinal, tall, ethereal, appeared suddenly beside him. His body was naked and without ornament and it had a kind of milky opaque quality. His face was thin and his eyes seemed blind—as blind as those of the machine-beast—yet looked clearly at Hawkmoon.
'Ghosts of cities, ghosts of men,' said Count Brass sheathing his sword. 'Still, if you saved our lives from that thing,' he pointed at the dead machine-beast, 'I must thank you.' He recovered his grace and bowed. 'I thank you most humbly, Sir Ghost.'
'I regret that our beast caused you so much trouble,' said Rinal of Soryandum. 'We created it to protect our treasures, many centuries ago. We would have destroyed it, save that we feared the Dark Empire folk would return to take our machines and put them to evil use—and also, we could do nothing until it came into the environs of our city, for, as you know, Dorian Hawkmoon, we have no power beyond Soryandum now. Our existence is completely linked with the existence of the city. It was an easy matter to tell the beast to die, however, once it was here.'
'It was as well for us, Duke Dorian, that you advised us to flee back here,' said Bowgentle feelingly. 'Otherwise we should all three be dead by now.'
'Where is your other friend,' said Rinal. 'The one who came with you first to Soryandum!'
'Oladahn is twice-dead,' said Hawkmoon in a low voice.
'Twice?'
'Aye—just as these other friends of mine came close to dying for at least a second time.'
'You intrigue me,' said Rinal. 'Come, we'll find you something with which to sustain yourselves as you explain all these mysteries to myself and the few others of my folk who remain.'
Rinal led the three companions through the broken streets of Soryandum until they came to a three-storied house which had no entrance at ground level. Hawkmoon had visited the house before. Although superficially no different to the other ruins of Soryandum, this was where the Wraith-folk lived when they needed to take material form.
And now two others emerged from above, drifting down towards Hawkmoon, Count Brass and Bowgentle and lifting them effortlessly, bearing them upward to the second level and a wide window which was the entrance to the house.
In a bare, clean room food was brought to them, though Rinal's folk had no need of food themselves. The food was delicious, though unfamiliar. Count Brass attacked it with vigour, speaking hardly at all as he listened to Hawkmoon tell Rinal of why they sought the assistance of the Wraith-folk of Soryandum.
And when Hawkmoon had finished his tale, Count Brass continued to eat, to Bowgentle's quiet amusement. Bowgentle himself was more interested in learning more about Soryandum and its inhabitants, its history and its science and Rinal told him much, between listening to Hawkmoon. He told Bowgentle how, during the Tragic Millennium, most of the great cities and nations had concentrated their energies on producing more and more powerful weapons of war. But Soryandum had been able to remain neutral, thanks to her remote geographical position. She had concentrated on understanding more of the nature of space, of matter and of time. Thus she had survived the Tragic Millennium and remembered all her knowledge while elsewhere knowledge died and superstition replaced it, as was ever the case in such situations.
'And that is why we now seek your help,' said Hawkmoon. 'We wish to find out how Baron Kalan escaped and to where he fled. We wish to discover how he manages to manipulate the stuff of time, to bring Count Brass and Bowgentle—and the others I mentioned— from one age to another and still not create a paradox in our minds at least.'
'That sounds the simplest of the problems,' said Rinal. 'This Kalan seems to have got control of enormous power. Is he the one who destroyed your crystal machine—the one we gave you which allowed you to shift your own castle and city out of this space-time?'
'No, that was Taragorm I believe,' Hawkmoon told Rinal. 'But Kalan is just as clever as the old Master of the Palace of Time. However, I suspect that he is unsure of the nature of his power. He is reluctant to test it to its fullest extent. And, also, he seems to think that my death now might change past history. Is that possible?'
Rinal looked thoughtful. 'It could be,' he said. 'This Baron Kalan must have a very subtle understanding of time. Objectively, of course, there is no such thing as past, present or future. Yet Baron Kalan's plot seems unnecessarily complicated. If he can manipulate time to that extent, could he not merely seek to destroy you before—subjectively speaking—you could be of service to the Runestaff?'
'That would change all the events
concerning our defeat of the Dark Empire?'
'That is one of the paradoxes. Events are events. They occur. They are truth. But truth varies in different dimensions. It is just possible that there is some dimension of Earth so like your own, that similar events are about to take place in it...' Rinal smiled. Count Brass's bronzed forehead had furrowed and he was plucking at his moustache and shaking his head from side to side as if he thought Rinal mad.
'You have another suggestion, Count Brass?'
'Politics are my interest,' said Count Brass. 'I've never cared overmuch for the more abstract areas of philosophy. My mind is not trained to follow your reasoning.'
Hawkmoon laughed. 'Mine, neither. Only Bowgentle appears to know of what Rinal speaks.'
'Something,' Bowgentle admitted. 'Something. You think that Kalan might be in some other dimension of the Earth where a Count Brass, say, exists who is not quite the same as the Count Brass who sits beside me now?'
'What?' Count Brass growled. 'Have I a doppelganger?'
Hawkmoon laughed again. But Bowgentle's face was serious as he said: 'Not quite, Count Brass. It occurs to me that, in this world, you would be the doppelganger—and I, for that matter. I believe that this is not our world—that the past we recall would not be quite the same, in detail, as that which friend Hawkmoon recalls. We are interlopers, through no fault of our own. Brought here to kill Duke Dorian. Yet, save for reasons of perverse vengeance, why could not Baron Kalan kill Duke Dorian himself? Why must he use us?'
'Because of the repercussions—if your theory is correct———' put in Rinal. 'His action must conflict with some other action which is against his interests. If he slays Hawkmoon, something will happen to him—a chain of events will come to pass which would be just that much different to the chain of events which will take place if one of you kills him.'
'Yet he must have allowed for the possibility that we would not be deceived into killing Hawkmoon?'
'I think not,' said Rinal. 'I think things have gone awry for Baron Kalan. That is why he continued to try to force you to kill Hawkmoon even when it became obvious that you were suspicious of the situation. He must have based some plan on the expectation of Hawkmoon's being slain in the Kamarg. That is why he grows more and more hysterical. Doubtless he has other schemes afoot and sees them all endangered by Hawkmoon's continuing to live. That, too, is why he has only despatched those of you who have directly attacked him. He is somehow vulnerable. You would be well advised to discover the nature of that vulnerability.'
Hawkmoon shrugged. 'What chance have we of making such a discovery, when we do not even know where Baron Kalan is hiding?'
'It might be possible to find him,' mused Rinal. 'There are certain devices we invented when we were learning to shift our city through the dimensions—sensors and the like which can probe the various layers of the multiverse. We shall have to prepare them. We have used only one probe, to watch this area of our own Earth while we remained hidden in the other dimension. To activate the others will take a short while. Would this be helpful to you?'
'It would,' said Hawkmoon.
'Does it mean we'll be given a chance to get our hands on Kalan?' growled Count Brass.
Bowgentle placed a hand on the shoulder of the man who would become, in later years, his closest friend. 'You are impetuous, Count. Rinal's machines can only see into these dimensions. It will be another matter altogether, I am sure, to travel into them.'
Rinal inclined his thin-skulled head. 'That is true. However, let us see if we can find Baron Kalan of the Dark Empire. There is a good chance that we shall fail —for there are an infinity of dimensions, of this Earth alone.'
Through most of the following day, while Rinal and his people worked on their machines, Hawkmoon, Bowgentle and Count Brass slept, recouping the strength they had expended in travelling to Soryandum and fighting the metal beast
And then, in the evening, Rinal floated through the window so that the rays of the setting sun seemed to radiate from his opaque body.
'They are ready, the devices,' he said. 'Will you come now? We are beginning to scan the dimensions.'
Count Brass leapt up. 'Aye, we'll come.'
The others rose as two of Rinal's fellows entered the room and, in strong arms, lifted them up, through the window and to the floor above where were assembled an array of machines unlike any machines they had ever seen before. Like the crystal device which had shifted Castle Brass through the dimensions, these were more like jewels than machines—some of the jewels nearly the height of a man. At each of the machines floated one of the Wraith-folk, manipulating smaller jewels, not dissimilar to that small pyramid which Hawkmoon had seen in the hands of Baron Kalan.
A thousand pictures flashed upon the screens as the probes delved the dimensions of the multiverse, showing peculiar, alien scenes, many of which seemed to bear little relation to any Earth Hawkmoon knew.
And then, hours later, Hawkmoon cried: 'There! A beast-mask! I saw it.'
The operator stroked a series of crystals, trying to fix on the image which had flashed on to the screen so briefly. But it was gone.
Again the probes began their search. Twice more Hawkmoon thought he saw scenes providing evidence of Kalan's whereabouts, but twice more they lost the scene.
And then, at last, by the purest chance, they saw a white, glowing pyramid and it was unmistakably the pyramid in which Baron Kalan travelled.
The sensors received a particularly strong signal, for the pyramid was in the process of completing a journey of its own, returning, Hawkmoon hoped, to its base.
'We can follow it easily enough. Watch.'
Hawkmoon, Count Brass and Bowgentle gathered round the screen as it shadowed the milky pyramid until at last it came to a stop and began to turn transparent, revealing the hateful face of Baron Kalan of Vitall. Unaware that he was being observed by those he sought to destroy, he climbed from his pyramid into a large, dark, untidy room that might have been a copy of his old laboratory in Londra. He was frowning, consulting notes he had made. Another figure appeared and spoke to him, though the three friends heard no sound. The figure was clad in the old manner of the folk of the Dark Empire—a huge, cumbersome mask was on his head, completely covering it. The mask was of metal, enamelled in a score of colours, and had been fashioned to resemble the head of a hissing serpent.
Hawkmoon recognised it as the mask of the Order of the Snake—the order to which all sorcerers and scientists of old Granbretan had had to belong. Even as they watched, the snake-masked one handed another mask to Kalan who donned it hurriedly, for no Granbretanian of his kind could bear to be seen unmasked by any of his fellows.
Kalan's mask was also in the form of a serpent's head, but more ornate than his servant's.
Hawkmoon rubbed at his jaw, wondering why he felt something was wrong about the scene. He wished that D'Averc, more familiar with the intimate ways of the Dark Empire, was with him now, for D'Averc would have noticed.
And then it dawned on Hawkmoon that these masks were cruder than any he had seen in Londra, even those worn by the humblest servants. The finish of the masks, their design, was not of the same quality. But why should this be?
Now the probes followed Kalan from his laboratory and through winding passages very like those which had once connected buildings in Londra. Superficially this place could have been Londra. But, again, these passages were subtly different. The stone was poorly faced, the carvings and murals were by inferior artists. None of this would have been tolerated in Londra where, for all their perverse tastes, the Lords of the Dark Empire had demanded the highest standards of craftsmanship, down to the smallest detail.
Here, detail was lacking. The whole thing resembled a bad copy of a painting.
The scene flickered as Kalan entered another chamber where more masked ones met. This chamber also looked familiar, but crude, like everything else.
Count Brass was fuming. 'When can we get there? That's our enemy. Let's deal with him at o
nce!'
'It is not easy to travel through the dimensions,' Rinal said mildly. 'Moreover, we have not yet traced exactly where it is that we are watching.'
Hawkmoon smiled at Count Brass. 'Have patience, sir.'
This Count Brass was more impetuous than the man Hawkmoon had known. Doubtless it was because he was some twenty years younger. Or perhaps, as Rinal had suggested, he was not the same man—only a man very nearly the same, from another dimension. Still, Hawkmoon thought, he was satisfied with this Count Brass, wherever he came from.
'Our probe falters,' said the Wraith-man operating the screen. 'The dimension we study must be many layers away.'
Rinal nodded. 'Aye, many. Somewhere even our old adventuring ancestors never explored. It will be hard to find a doorway through.'
'Kalan found one,' Hawkmoon pointed out.
Rinal smiled faintly. 'By accident or by design, friend Hawkmoon?'
'By design, surely? Where else would he have discovered some other Londra?'
'New cities can be built,' said Rinal.
'Aye,' said Bowgentle. 'And so can new realities.'
Chapter Six
Another Victim
The three men waited anxiously while Rinal and his people considered the possibility of journeying into the dimension where Baron Kalan of Vitall was hiding.
'Since this new cult has grown up in the real Londra, I would assume that Kalan is visiting his supporters secretly. That explains the rumour that some of the Dark Empire Lords are still alive in Londra,' Hawkmoon mused. 'Our only other chance would be to go to Londra and seek Kalan out there, when he makes his next visit. But would we have the time?'
Count Brass shook his head. 'That Kalan—he is desperate to accomplish his scheme. Why he should be so hysterical, with all the dimensions of space and time to play with, I cannot guess. Yet, though he can presumably manipulate us at will, he does not. I wonder why we should be so crucial to his plans?'
Hawkmoon shrugged. 'Perhaps we are not. He would not be the first Dark Empire Lord to let a thirst for vengeance get in the way of his own self-interest.' He told them the story of Baron Meliadus.
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