Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull

by Michael Moorcock

  "You have no choice but to release the child, Shenegar Trott!" The voice boomed from within a helm of jet and gold.

  "Aye, my brother speaks the truth . . ." From the other side of the dais Orland Fank now emerged, his gigantic war-axe on his leather-clad shoulder.

  "How did you get here?" Hawkmoon asked in astonishment.

  "I might ask the same," grinned Fank. "At least you now have friends with whom to debate this dilemma."

  Chapter Ten - Spirit of The Runestaff

  SHENEGAR TROTT, COUNT of Sussex, chuckled again and shook his head. "Well, there are now four of you, but it does not alter the situation a scrap. I have thousands at my back. I have the boy. You will kindly step aside, gentlemen, while I take the Runestaff for my own."

  Orland Fank's rawboned face split in a huge grin, while the Warrior in Jet and Gold merely shifted his armoured feet a little. Hawkmoon and D'Averc look questioningly at them. "I think there is a weakness in your argument, my friend," said Orland Fank.

  "Oh, no sir—there is none." Shenegar Trott began to move forward.

  "Aye—I'd say that there was."

  Trott paused. "What is it, then?"

  "You are assuming you can hold yon boy, are you not?"

  "I could kill him before you could take him."

  "Aye—but you're assuming the child has no means of escaping from you, are you not?"

  "He can't wriggle free!" Shenegar Trott held the child up by the slack of his garments and began to laugh loudly. "See!"

  And then the Granbretanian yelled in astonishment as the boy seemed to flow from his grasp, streaking out across the hall in a long strip of light, his features still visible but oddly elongated. The music swelled in the hall and the odour increased.

  Shenegar Trott made ineffectual grabbing motions at the boy's thinning substance but it was as impossible to grasp him as it was to grasp the glowing shadows now pulsing in the air above them.

  "By Huon's Globe—he is not human!" screamed Trott in frustrated anger. "He is not human!"

  "He did not claim to be," Orland Fank said mildly and winked cheerfully at Hawkmoon. "Are you and your friend ready for a good fight?"

  "We are," grinned Hawkmoon. "We are indeed!"

  Now the boy—or whatever it was—was stretching out over their heads to touch the Runestaff. The configurations changed rapidly and many more of them filled the hall so that all their faces were crossed with shifting bars of colour.

  Orland Fank watched this with great attention and it seemed that as the boy was actually absorbed into the Runestaff the Orkneyman's face flooded with regret.

  Soon there was no trace of the boy in the hall and the Runestaff glowed a brighter black, seemed to have sentience.

  Hawkmoon gasped. "Who was he, Orland Fank?"

  Fank blinked. "Who? Why, the spirit of the Runestaff.

  He rarely materialises in human form. You were especially honoured."

  Shenegar Trott was screaming in fury. Then he broke off as a great voice boomed from the closed helm of the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "Now you must prepare yourself for death, Count of Sussex."

  Trott laughed crazily. "You are still mistaken. There are four of you—thousands of us. You shall die, and then I shall claim the Runestaff!"

  The Warrior turned to Hawkmoon. "Duke of Koln, would you care to summon some aid?"

  "With pleasure," grinned Hawkmoon and he raised the rosy sword high in the air. "I summon the Legion of the Dawn!"

  A rosy light filled the hall, flooding over the colourful patterns in the air. And there stood a hundred fierce warriors, framed each in his own scarlet aura.

  The warriors had a barbaric appearance, as if they came from an earlier, more primitive age. They bore great spiked clubs decorated with ornate carvings, lances bound with tufts of dyed hair. Their brown bodies and faces were smeared with paint and clad in loincloths of bright stuff. On their arms and legs were strapped wooden discs for protection. Their large black eyes were full of a remote sorrow and they gave voice to a mourn-ful, moaning dirge.

  These were the Warriors of the Dawn.

  Even the hardened members of the Falcon Legion cried out in horror as the warriors appeared from nowhere. Shenegar Trott took a step backward.

  "I would advise you to lay down your weapons and make yourselves our prisoners," Hawkmoon advised grimly.

  Trott shook his head. "Never. There are still more of us than there are of you!"

  "Then we must begin our battle," Hawkmoon said, and he moved down the steps towards his enemies.

  Now Shenegar Trott drew his own great battleblade and dropped to a fighting position. Hawkmoon swung at him with the Sword of the Dawn, but Trott dodged aside, swinging at Hawkmoon and barely missing gouging a line across his stomach. Hawkmoon was at a disadvantage, for Trott was fully armoured, while Hawkmoon wore only silk.

  The dirge of the Soldiers of the Dawn changed to a great howl as they rushed down the steps behind Hawkmoon and began to hack and stab about them with clubs and lances. The fierce Falcon fighters met them valiantly, giving as good as they received, but were plainly demoralised when they discovered that for every Warrior of the Dawn that they slew another appeared from nowhere to take his place.

  D'Averc, Orland Fank and the Warrior in Jet and Gold moved more slowly down the steps, swinging their blades in unison before them and driving back the Falcons with three pendulums of steel.

  Shenegar Trott struck again at Hawkmoon and ripped the sleeve of his shirt. Hawkmoon flung out his swordarm and the Sword of the Dawn met Trott's mask, denting it so that the features took on an even more grotesque appearance.

  But then, as Hawkmoon leapt backward, poised to continue the fight, he felt a sudden blow on the back of his head, half-turned and saw a Falcon warrior had struck him with the haft of an axe. He tried to recover, but then began to fall. As he lost his senses, he saw the Warriors of Dawn fade into oblivion. Desperately he tried to recover, for the Warriors of Dawn, it seemed, could not exist unless he had control of his senses.

  But it was too late. As he fell to the steps, he heard Shenegar Trott chuckling.

  Chapter Eleven - A Brother Slain

  HAWKMOON HEARD THE distant din of battle, shook his head and peered through a haze of red and black.

  He tried to rise, but at least four corpses pinned him down. His friends had taken good account of themselves.

  Struggling up, he saw that Shenegar Trott had reached the Runestaff. And there stood the Warrior in Jet and Gold, evidently badly wounded, hacked at by a hundred blades, attempting to stop the Granbretanian.

  But Shenegar Trott raised a huge mace and brought it down on the Warrior's helm. He staggered and the helm crumpled.

  Hawkmoon gathered his breath to cry hoarsely:

  "Legion of the Dawn! Return to me! Legion of the Dawn!"

  At last the barbaric warriors reappeared, lashing about them at the startled Falcons.

  Hawkmoon staggered up the steps to the Warrior's aid, unable to see if any of the others lived. But then the huge weight of the jet and gold armour began to fall towards him, knocking him backwards. He support-ed it as best he could, but he knew by the feel of it that there was no life in the body within.

  He forced back the visor, weeping for the man he had never considered a friend until now, curious to see the features of the one who had guided his destiny for so long, but the visor would hardly move an inch, Shenegar Trott's mace had buckled it so.

  "Warrior..."

  "The Warrior is dead!" Shenegar Trott had flung off his mask and was reaching for the Runestaff, triumphantly staring over his shoulder at Hawkmoon. "As shall you be in a trice, Dorian Hawkmoon!"

  With a shout of fury, Hawkmoon dropped the Warrior's corpse and flew up the steps towards his enemy.

  Disconcerted, Trott turned, raising the mace again.

  Hawkmoon ducked the blow and closed with Trott, grappling with him on the topmost step while red carnage spread all around them.

  As
he struggled with the count, he saw D'Averc, half-way up the steps, his shirt a mass of bloody rags, one arm limp at his side, tackling five of the Falcon warriors—and higher up Orland Fank was still alive, whirling his battle-axe around his head and giving voice to a strange, skirling cry.

  Trott's breath wheezed from between his fat lips and Hawkmoon was astonished at his strength. "You will die, Hawkmoon—you must die if the Runestaff is to be mine!"

  Hawkmoon panted as he wrestled with the Count. "It will never be yours. It can be possessed by no man!"

  With a sudden heave, he broke Trott's guard and punched him full in the face. The Count screamed and came forward again, but Hawkmoon raised his booted foot and kicked him in the chest, sending him reeling back against the dais. Then Hawkmoon recovered his sword and when Shenegar Trott ran at him again, blind with anger, he ran directly on to the point of the Sword of the Dawn, dying with an obscene curse on his lips and one last, backward look at the Runestaff.

  Hawkmoon tugged the sword free and looked about him. His Legion of the Dawn were finishing their work, clubbing down the last of the Falcons, and D'Averc and Fank were leaning exhaustedly against the dais beneath the Runestaff.

  Soon a few groans were cut short as spiked clubs fell on heads, and then there was silence save for the faint, melodic humming and the heavy breathing of the three survivors.

  As the last Granbretanian died, the Legion of the Dawn vanished.

  Hawkmoon stared down at the fat corpse of Shenegar Trott and he frowned. "We have slain one—but if one has been sent here, then others will follow. Dnark is no longer safe from the Dark Empire."

  Fank sniffed and wiped his nose with his forearm. "It is for you to make sure that Dnark is safe—that the rest of the world is safe."

  Hawkmoon smiled sardonically. "And how may I do that?"

  Fank began to speak and then his eyes lighted on the huge corpse of the Warrior in Jet and Gold and he gasped: "Brother!" and began to stagger down the steps, to drop his battle axe and gather the armoured figure in his arms. "Brother...?"

  "He is dead," Hawkmoon said softly. "He died by Shenegar Trott's hand, defending the Runestaff. I slew Trott.. ."

  Fank wept.

  At length they stood together, the three of them, looking about at the carnage. The whole hall of the Runestaff was full of corpses. Even the patterns in the air seemed to have taken on a reddish colouring and the bitter-sweet odour could not disguise the stink of death.

  Hawkmoon scabbarded the Sword of the Dawn.

  "What now, I wonder?" he said. "We've done the work we were asked to do. We've defended the Runestaff suc-cessfully. Now do we return to Europe."

  Then a voice spoke from behind them; it was the sweet voice of the child, Jehemia Cohnahlias. Turning, Hawkmoon saw that he stood beside the Runestaff, holding it in one hand.

  "Duke of Koln you take what you have rightfully earned," said the boy, his slanting eyes full of warm humour. "You take the Runestaff with you back to Europe, there to decide the destiny of the Earth."

  "To Europe! I thought it could not be removed from its place."

  "You, as the chosen one of the Runestaff, may take it." The boy stretched out towards Hawkmoon, and in his hand was the Runestaff. "Defend it. And pray it defends you."

  "And how shall we use it?" D'Averc enquired.

  "As your standard. Let all men know that the Runestaff rides with you—that the Runestaff is on your side. Tell them that it was the Baron Meliadus who dared swear an oath on the Runestaff and thus set into motion these events which will destroy completely one protagonist or the other. Whatever happens, it will be final. Carry your invasion to Granbretan if you can, or else die in the effort. The last great battle between Meliadus and Hawkmoon is soon to be fought, and over it the Runestaff will preside!"

  Hawkmoon mutely accepted the staff. It felt cold, dead and very heavy, though the patterns still blazed about it.

  "Put it inside your shirt, or wrap it in a cloth," advised the boy, "and none will observe those betraying forces until you should wish them revealed."

  "Thank you," said Hawkmoon quietly.

  "The Great Good Ones will help you return to your home," the boy continued. "Farewell, Hawkmoon."

  "Farewell? Where do you go now?"

  "Where I belong."

  And suddenly the boy began to change again, turning into a streamer of golden light still bearing some semblance of human shape, pouring itself into the Runestaff which immediately became warm, vital and light in Hawkmoon's grasp.

  With a slight shudder, Hawkmoon tucked the Runestaff inside his shirt.

  As they walked out of the hall, D'Averc observed that Orland Fank was still weeping softly.

  "What disturbs you, Fank?" D'Averc asked. "Do you still grieve for the man who was your brother."

  "Aye—but I grieve for my son the more."

  "Your son? What of him?"

  Orland Fank jerked his thumb at Hawkmoon, who wandered behind, his head bowed in thought. "He has him."

  "What do you mean?"

  Fank sighed. "It must be, I know that. But still, I am a man, I can weep. I speak of Jehemia Cohnahlias."

  "The boy! The spirit of the Runestaff?"

  "Aye. He was my son—or myself—I have never quite understood these things..."

  Book Two

  As it is written: "Those who swear by the Runestaff must then benefit or suffer from the consequences of the fixed pattern of destiny that they set in motion." And Baron Meliadus of Kroiden had sworn such an oath, had sworn vengeance against all of Castle Brass, had sworn that Yisselda, Count Brass's daughter, would be his. On that day, many months earlier, he had fixed the pattern of fate; a pattern that had involved him in strange, destructive schemes, that had involved Dorian Hawkmoon in wild and uncanny adventures in distant places, and that was now nearing its terrible resolution.

  —The High History of the Runestaff

  Chapter One - Whispering in Secret Rooms

  THE VERANDAH OVERLOOKED the blood-red river Tayme making its sluggish way through the very heart of Londra, between gloomy, crazy towers.

  Above them the occasional ornithopter, a bright bird of metal, clanked past, and on the river the barges of bronze and ebony carried cargo to and from the coast.

  Those cargoes were rich; full of stolen goods and stolen men, women and children brought as slaves to Londra.

  An awning of heavy purple velvet hung with tassels of scarlet silk protected the occupants of the veranda from view from above and the awning's shadow made it impossible for them to be seen from the river.

  A table of brass and two golden chairs upholstered in blue plush stood on the verandah. A richly decorated platinum tray on the table bore a wine jug of dark green glass and two matching goblets. On either side of the door leading on to the verandah stood a naked girl, with face, breasts and genitals heavily rouged. Anyone familiar with the Court of Londra would have recognised the slave girls as belonging to Baron Meliadus of Kroiden, for he had only female slaves and their only livery was the rouge he insisted they wear. Of the girls, who stared fixedly out at the river, one was a blonde, almost certainly from Koln in Germany, the Baron's possession by right of conquest. The other girl was dark, doubtless from some province in the Middle East Baron Meliadus had added, by means of a bloodied sword, to his estates.

  In one golden chair sat a woman, clad from head to foot in rich brocade and wearing a silver mask, delicately fashioned to resemble a heron. Next to her sat a figure dressed in bulky black leather, his shoulders crowned by a huge mask representing a black, snarling wolf. He inserted a golden tube into his goblet and stuck the other end through a tiny aperture in the mask, sucking slowly at the wine.

  There was silence between the pair and the only sound came from beyond the verandah—from the wake of the barges slapping at the wall, from a distant tower as someone screamed and laughed at once, from an ornithopter high above, its metal wings flapping slowly as it sought to land on the flat top of
one of the towers.

  And then, at length, the figure in the wolf mask began to speak in a low, thrilling voice. The other figure did not move its head or appear to hear but continued to stare out over the blood red water whose strange colour was attributed to the effluvia which poured from outlets near its bed.

  "You are under some slight suspicion yourself, you know, Flana. King Huon thinks you might have had something to do with the mysterious madness which overwhelmed the guards the night the Asiacommunistans escaped. Doubtless I am not helping my own cause by seeing you thus, but I think only of our beloved homeland—only of the glory of Granbretan."

  The speaker paused as if expecting a reply. He received none.

  "It is plain, Flana, that the present situation of the Court is not in the best interests of the Empire. I delight in eccentricity, of course, as a true son of Granbretan, but there is a difference between eccentricity and senility. You take my meaning?"

  Flana Mikosevaar said nothing.

  "I am suggesting," continued the other, "that we need a new ruler—an Empress. There is only one alive who is a direct blood relative of Huon—only one all would accept as rightful liege; legal inheritor to the throne of the Dark Empire."

  Again no reply.

  The figure in the wolf mask bent forward. "Flana?"

  The heron mask turned to regard the snarling wolf visage.

  "Flana—you could be Queen-Empress of Granbretan. With myself as Regent, we could ensure the security of our nation and our territories, make Granbretan greater—make the whole world ours!"

  "And what would be done with the world once we owned it, Meliadus?" For the first time Flana Mikosevaar spoke.

  "Enjoy it, Flana! Use it!"

  "Cannot one tire of rape and murder? Of torture and destruction?"

  Meliadus seemed puzzled by her comment. "One can become bored by anything, of course, but there are other things—there are Kalan's experiments—and Taragorm's for that matter. With the resources of the world at their disposal, our scientists could make anything. Why, they could build us ships to sail through space, as the ancients did. We could journey to new worlds and conquer them—pitting wits and skill against a universe! Granbretan's adventure could last a million years!"