Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull

by Michael Moorcock

  Bowgentle signed for stewards to help D'Averc.

  "Take him to the room in the northern tower—the sickroom. I'll attend to him as soon as I can. Come," he said. "See for yourselves...."

  They left Oladahn to stay with D'Averc and climbed the old stone staircase to the landing where Count Brass's apartments still were. Bowgentle opened a door and they entered the bedroom.

  There was a simple soldier's bed, big and square, with white sheets and plain pillows. On the pillows lay a great head that seemed carved from metal. The red hair had a little more gray, the bronzed face was a trifle paler, but the red mustache was the same. And the heavy brow that hung like a ledge of rock over the cave of the deepset golden brown eyes, that, too, was the same. But the eyes stared at the ceiling without blinking, and the lips did not move, were set in a hard line.

  "Count Brass," murmured Bowgentle. "Look."

  But the eyes remained fixed. Hawkmoon had to come forward, peer straight into the face, and make Yisselda do likewise. "Count Brass, your daughter, Yisselda, has returned, and Dorian Hawkmoon, too."

  From the lips now came a rumbling murmur, "More illusions. I'd thought the fever past, Bowgentle."

  "So it is, my lord—these are not phantoms."

  The eyes moved now to look at them. "Am I dead at last and joined with you, my children?"

  "You are on earth, Count Brass!" Hawkmoon said Yisselda bent and kissed her father on the lips.

  "There, father—an earthly kiss."

  Gradually the hard line of the lips began to melt, until a smile was there, then a wide grin. Then the body heaved under the clothes, and suddenly Count Brass was sitting upright. "Ah! It's true. I'd lost hope!

  Fool that I am, I'd lost hope!" He laughed now, suddenly alive with vitality.

  Bowgentle was astonished. "Count Brass—I thought you but a pace from the door of death!"

  "So I was, Bowgentle—but I've leaped back from it, as you see. Leaped a long way. How goes the siege, Hawkmoon?'

  "Badly for us, Count Brass, but better, I'll wager, now we three are together again!"

  "Aye. Bowgentle, have my armor brought. And where is my sword?"

  "Count Brass—you must still be weak. . . ."

  "Then bring me food—a great deal of food—and I'll fortify myself while we talk." And Count Brass sprang from his bed to embrace his daughter and her betrothed.

  In the hall they ate while Dorian Hawkmoon told Count Brass all that had befallen him since leaving the castle so many months before. Count Brass, in turn, told of his tribulations with, it had seemed, the entire might of the Dark Empire to contend with. He told of von Villach's last battle and how the old man had died bravely, at the cost of a score of Dark Empire lives, how he, himself, had been wounded, how he had learned of Yisselda's disappearance and lost the will to live.

  Oladahn came down then and was introduced. He said that D'Averc was badly hurt but that Bowgentle thought he would recover.

  On the whole it was a cheerful homecoming, but marred by the knowledge that on the borders the Guardians were fighting for their lives, almost certainly fighting a losing battle.

  Count Brass had by this time donned his armor of brass and strapped on his huge broadsword. He towered above the others as he stood up and said, "Come, Hawkmoon, Sir Oladahn, we must to the battlefield and lead our men to victory."

  Bowgentle sighed. "Two hours ago I thought you all but dead—now you ride to battle. You are not well enough, sir."

  "My sickness was of the spirit, not the flesh, and that's cured now," roared Count Brass. "Horses! Tell them to bring our horses, Sir Bowgentle!"

  Though himself weary, Hawkmoon found renewed vigor as he followed the old man from the castle. He blew a kiss to Yisselda, and then they were in the courtyard, mounting the horses that would bear them to the battlefield.

  They rode hard, the three of them, through the secret pathways of the marshlands, with huge clouds of giant flamingoes passing through the air over their heads, herds of wild horned horses galloping away from them. Count Brass waved a gloved hand. "Such a land is worth defending with all we have. Such peace is worth protecting."

  Soon they heard the sounds of warfare and came to where the Dark Empire drove against the towers.

  They reined in when they saw the worst.

  Count Brass spoke in a stricken whisper. "Impossible," he said.

  But it was true.

  The towers had fallen. Each lay broken, a pile of smoking masonry. The survivors were even now being pressed back, though they battled bravely.

  "This is the fall of the Kamarg," said Count Brass in the voice of an old man.

  Chapter Eleven - RETURN OF THE WARRIOR

  NOW ONE OF the captains saw them and came riding up. His armor was in tatters and his sword broken, but there was joy in his face. "Count Brass! At last! Come sir, we must rally the men—drive the Dark Empire dogs back!"

  Hawkmoon saw Count Brass force himself to smile, draw his great broadsword, and say, "Aye, Captain.

  See if you can find a herald or two to tell all that Count Brass is back!"

  A cheer went up from the hardpressed Kamargians as Count Brass and Hawkmoon appeared, and they held their ground, even drove the Granbretanians back in places. Count Brass, with Hawkmoon and Oladahn following, rode into the thick of his men, once again the invincible man of metal. "Aside, lads!" he called. "Aside and let me get at the enemy!"

  Count Brass grabbed his own battered standard from a nearby rider, and with this balanced in the crook of his arm, his sword waving, he drove forward at the mass of beast masks ahead.

  Hawkmoon rode up beside him, and they made a menacing, almost supernatural pair, the one in his flaming armor of brass and the other with the black jewel imbedded in his forehead, their swords rising and falling on the heads of the tightly packed Granbretan infantry. And when another figure joined them, a stocky man with fur covering his face and a flashing saber striking here and there like lightning, they seemed a trio out of mythology, unnerving the beast warriors of Granbretan so that they fell back.

  Hawkmoon searched about for Meliadus, swearing that he would certainly kill him this time, but he could not see him for the moment.

  Gauntleted hands tried to drag him from his saddle, but his sword slipped through eyeholes, split helms, and sliced heads from their shoulders.

  The day wore, and the fighting continued without respite. Hawkmoon swayed in his saddle now, battleweary and halfdazed with pain from a dozen minor cuts and a great many bruises. His horse was killed, but the weight of men surrounding him was so great that he sat it for half an hour before he realized it was dead. Then he sprang off it and continued fighting on foot.

  He knew that no matter how many he and the others killed, they were outnumbered and illequipped. Gradually they were being driven farther and farther back.

  "Ah," he murmured to himself, "if only we had a few hundred fresh troops, we might win the day. By the Runestaff, we need aid!"

  Suddenly a strange electric sensation ran through his body, and he gasped, recognizing what was happening to him, realizing that he had unconsciously invoked the Runestaff. The Red Amulet, which now glowed at his neck, spreading red light on the armor of his enemies, was now transmitting power into his body. He laughed and began to hew around him with fantastic strength, cutting back the circle of warriors attacking him. His sword snapped, but he grabbed a lance from a horseman riding at him, dragged its owner from his saddle, and, swinging the lance like a sword, jumped onto the horse and resumed the attack.

  "Hawkmoon! Hawkmoon!" he cried using the old battlecry of his ancestors. "Hai—Oladahn—Count Brass!" He gouged his way through the beastmasked warriors between himself and his friends. Count Brass's standard still swayed in its owner's hand.

  "Drive them back!" Hawkmoon yelled. "Drive them back to our borders!"

  Then Hawkmoon was everywhere, a whirling bringer of death. He raced through the ranks of Granbretan, and where he passed there were o
nly corpses. A great muttering went up from the enemy then, and they began to falter.

  Soon they were falling back, some actually running from the field. And then the figure of Baron Meliadus appeared, crying out to them to turn to stand and to fight.

  "Back!" he cried. "You cannot fear so few!" But the tide was completely on the turn now, and he himself was caught by it, borne back by his retreating men.

  They fled in terror from the palefaced knight whose sword fell everywhere, in whose skull a black jewel shone and at whose throat hung an amulet of scarlet fire, whose fierce horse reared over their heads.

  They had heard, too, that he shouted the name of a dead man—that he, himself, was a dead man, Dorian Hawkmoon, who had fought against them at Koln and almost defeated them there, who had defied the KingEmperor himself, who had nearly slain Baron Meliadus and had, in fact, defeated him more than once. Hawkmoon! It was the only name the Dark Empire feared.

  "Hawkmoon! Hawkmoon!" The figure held its sword high as its horse reared again. "Hawkmoon!"

  Possessed of the power of the Red Amulet, Hawkmoon chased the fleeing army, and he laughed wildly with a mad triumph. Behind him rode Count Brass, terrible in his redgold armor, his huge blade dripping with the blood of his foes; Oladahn, grinning through his fur, bright eyes gleaming, saber slick with gore; and behind them the jubilant forces of the Kamarg, a handful of men jeering at the mighty army they had routed.

  Now the power of the amulet began to fade from Hawkmoon, and he felt his pains return, felt the weariness again, but now it did not matter, for they had come to the border, marked by the ruined towers, and watched their enemies in flight.

  Oladahn laughed. "Our victory, Hawkmoon."

  Count Brass frowned. "Aye—but not one we can sustain. We must withdraw, regroup, find some safer ground to stand, for we will not beat them again in the open field."

  "You are right," nodded Hawkmoon. "Now that the towers have fallen we need to find another spot well defended—and there is only one I can think of. . . ." He glanced at the Count.

  "Aye—Castle Brass," agreed the old man. "We must send word to all the towns and villages of the Kamarg to tell the people to bring their goods and stock to AiguesMortes under the protection of the castle... ."

  "Will we be able sustain so many for a long siege?" Hawkmoon asked.

  "We shall see," Count Brass replied, watching the distant army beginning to regroup. "But at least they will have some protection when the Dark Empire troops flood over our Kamarg."

  There were tears in his eyes as he turned his horse and began to ride back to the castle.

  From the balcony of his rooms in the eastern tower, Hawkmoon watched the people driving their livestock into the protection of the old town of AiguesMortes. Most of them were corralled in the amphitheater at one end of the town. Soldiers brought in provisions and helped folk with their loaded carts. By evening all but a few had entered the safety of the walls, crowding into houses or camping in the streets.

  Hawkmoon prayed that plague or panic might not set in, for such a crowd might be hard to control.

  Oladahn joined him on the balcony, pointing to the northeast. "Look," he said. "Flying machines." And Hawkmoon saw the ominous shapes of Dark Empire ornithopters flapping over the horizon, a certain sign that the army of Granbretan was on the move.

  By nightfall, they could see the cooking fires of the nearest troops.

  "Tomorrow," said Hawkmoon. "It could be our last battle."

  They went down to the hall, where Bowgentle talked to Count Brass. Food had been prepared, as lavishly as ever. The two men turned as Hawkmoon and Oladahn entered the hall.

  "How is D'Averc?" Hawkmoon asked.

  "Stronger," Bowgentle said. "He has an excellent constitution, says he would like to get up to eat tonight. I said he might."

  Yisselda came through the outer door. "I've spoken to the women," she said, "and they say all are now within the walls. We have enough provisions to last as much as a year, if we slaughter the stock...."

  Count Brass smiled sadly. "It will take less than a year to decide this battle. And how is the spirit in the town?"

  "Good," she said, "now that they have heard of your victory today and know you both to be alive."

  "It is as well," Count Brass said heavily, "that they do not know that tomorrow they die. Or if not tomorrow, the next day. We cannot stand against such a weight of soldiers for long, my dear. Most of our flamingoes are dead, so we have virtually no protection in the air. Most of our Guardians are dead, and the troops we have left are all but untrained."

  Bowgentle sighed. "And we thought the Kamarg could never fall...."

  "You are too certain that it will," said a voice from the stairs, and there was D'Averc, pale and dressed in a loose, fawncolored gown, limping down to the hall.

  "In such spirits you are bound to lose. You could try to talk of victory, at least."

  "You are right, Sir Huillam." Count Brass changed his mood with an effort of will. "And we could eat some of this good food here to give us energy for tomorrow's struggle."

  "How are you, D'Averc?" Hawkmoon asked as they seated themselves at the board.

  "Well enough," said D'Averc lightly. "I think I can manage some small refreshments." And he began to heap his plate with meat.

  They ate in silence, for the most part, relishing the meal that many felt would be their last.

  When Hawkmoon looked from his window the next morning, it was to see the marshlands overlaid with men. In the night, the Dark Empire had crept up close to their walls, and, now it was readying itself to the assault.

  Quickly Hawkmoon donned clothes and armor and went down to the hall, where he found D'Averc al

  ready encased in his patched armor, Oladahn cleaning his blade, and Count Brass discussing some feature of the coming campaign with two of his remaining captains.

  There was an atmosphere of tension in the hall, and the men spoke to one another in murmurs.

  Yisselda appeared and called to him softly, "Dorian..." He turned and ran up the stairs to the landing on which she stood, taking her in his arms and holding her close, kissing her gently on the forehead. "Dorian," she said, "let us be married before..."

  "Aye," he said quietly. "Let us find Bowgentle."

  They found the philosopher in his quarters reading a book. He looked up as they entered and smiled at them. They told him what they wanted, and he laid down his book. "I had hoped for the grand ceremony," he said, "but I understand."

  And he made them join hands and kneel before him while he spoke the words of his own composition that had always been used in marriages since he and his friend the Count had come to Castle Brass.

  When it was done, Hawkmoon stood up and kissed Yisselda again. Then he said, "Look after her, Bowgentle," and left the room to join his friends, who were already leaving the hall for the courtyard.

  As they mounted their horses a great shadow suddenly darkened the courtyard, and they heard the creaking and clattering overhead that could only be a Dark Empire ornithopter. A bolt of flame leapt from it and splashed on the cobbles, narrowly missing Hawkmoon and causing his horse to rear, nostrils flaring and eyes rolling.

  Count Brass brought up the flamelance with which he had already equipped himself and touched the stud, and red fire struck upwards at the flying machine.

  They heard the pilot scream and saw the thing's wings cease to work. It glided out of sight, and they heard it crash at last on the side of the hill.

  "I must station flamelancers in the towers," Count Brass said. "They'll have the best chance of striking back at the ornithopters. Come, gentlemen—let's to the battle."

  And as they left the castle walls and rode down to the town, they saw the huge tide of men was already washing at the walls of the town where Kamarg warriors fought desperately to drive it back.

  Ornithopters, fashioned like grotesque metal birds, wheeled over the town, pouring down flame into the streets, and the air became filled wi
th the screams of the townsfolk, the roar of flamelances, and the clash of metal against metal. Black smoke hung over AiguesMortes, and in places houses were already burning.

  Hawkmoon led the charge down to the town and pushed through frightened women and children to gain the walls and join in the fight. Elsewhere were Count Brass, D'Averc, and Oladahn, helping to resist the force that tried to crush the town.

  There came a desperate roar from one portion of the wall and an echoing cheer of triumph, and Hawkmoon began to run in that direction, seeing that a hole had been breached in the defenses and Dark Empire warriors, in helms of wolf and bear, were gushing through.

  Hawkmoon met them, and they wavered instantly, remembering his earlier exploits. He was no longer equipped with superhuman strength, but he used the pause to cry his ancestral battleshout, "Hawkmoon!

  Hawkmoon!" and leap at them, sword meeting metal, flesh, and bone and driving them back through the breach.

  So they fought all day, holding the town even as their numbers rapidly dropped, and when the night fell and the Dark Empire troops withdrew. Hawkmoon knew, as they all knew, that the next morning must bring defeat.

  Wearily, Hawkmoon, Count Brass, and the others led their horses back up the winding road to the castle, their hearts heavy as they thought of all the innocents slaughtered that day and of all the innocents who would be slaughtered tomorrow—if they were lucky enough to die.

  Then they heard a galloping horse behind them and turned on the slope, swords ready, to see the strange figure of a tall rider coming up the hill toward the castle. He had a long helm that completely encased his face, and his armor was wrought all in jet and gold.

  Hawkmoon scowled. "What does that traitorous thief want? "he said.

  The Warrior in Jet and Gold pulled up his big horse nearby. His deep, vibrant voice came from within his helmet then. "Greetings, defenders of the Kamarg. I see the day goes badly for you. Baron Meliadus will defeat you tomorrow."

  Hawkmoon wiped his forehead with a rag. "No need to make so much of the obvious, Warrior. What have you come to steal this time?"