The Champion of Garathorm

by Michael Moorcock

  Suddenly the young man's bag began to jump and writhe and Jhary-a-Conel lowered it gently to the ground, opening it and drawing out a small, winged black and white cat. The same Hawkmoon had seen in the vision.

  Hawkmoon shuddered. While he could find nothing to dislike about the young man himself, he had a terrible premonition that a-Conel's appearance heralded some unpleasant doom for him. Just as he could not see why he thought a-Conel resembled Oladahn, neither could he work out why other things were familiar, too. Echoes. Echoes like those which had convinced him that Yisselda still lived .. .

  'Do you know Yisselda?' he said tentatively. 'Yisselda of Brass?'

  Jhary-a-Conel frowned. 'I do not believe so. But then I know so many people and forget most of them, just as I might well forget you some day. That is my fate. As, of course, it is yours."

  ‘You speak familiarly of my fate. Why should you know more of it than do I?'

  'Because I do, in this context. Another time neither shall recognise the other. Champion, what calls you now?'

  As a Champion of the Runestaff, Hawkmoon was used to this form of address, though it was rare for most to use it. The rest of the sentence was a mystery to him.

  'Nothing calls me. I am upon a quest with this lady here. An urgent quest."

  'Then we must not delay. A moment."

  Jhary-a-Conel raced back up the hill and into the ruined castle. A moment later he emerged leading an old yellow horse. It was the unloveliest nag Hawkmoon had ever seen.

  'I doubt if you would be able to keep up with us mounted on that creature," Hawkmoon said. 'Even if we had agreed that you should accompany us. And we have not agreed.'

  'But you will.' Jhary-a-Conel put a foot into a stirrup and swung himself into his saddle. The horse seemed to sag under his weight. 'After all, it is our fate to ride together.'

  'That may seem preordained to you, my friend,' said Hawkmoon grimly, 'but I share no such belief.' And yet, he realised, he did. It seemed to him that it was perfectly natural that Jhary should ride with them. At the same time he resented both Jhary's assumption and his own.

  Hawkmoon looked to Katinka van Bak to see what she thought. She merely shrugged. 'I've no objection to another sword riding with us,' she said.

  She cast a disdainful look at Jhary's horse. 'Not,' she added, 'that I think you'll be riding with us for long.'

  'We shall see,' Jhary told her cheerfully. 'Where do you ride?'

  Hawkmoon became suspicious. Suddenly it occured to him that this man might be a spy for those who now occupied the Bulgar Mountains.

  'Why do you ask?'

  Jhary shrugged. 'I wondered. I had heard of some trouble in the mountains to the east of here. A wild band who swoop down to destroy everything before returning to their retreat.'

  'I have heard a story like that," Hawkmoon admitted cau­tiously. 'Where did you hear it?"

  'Oh, from a traveller I met on the road.'

  At last Hawkmoon had heard confirmation of what Katinka van Bak had told him. He was relieved to find that she had not been lying to him. 'Well,' he said, 'we ride in that general direc­tion. Perhaps we shall see for ourselves.'

  'Indeed,' said Katinka van Bak with a crooked smile.

  And now there were three riding for the Bulgar Mountains. A strange threesome, in truth. They rode for some days and Jhary's nag appeared to have no great trouble in keeping pace with the other horses.

  One day Hawkmoon turned to their new companion and asked him: 'Did you ever have occasion to meet a man called Oladahn? He was quite short and covered all over in red hair. He claimed to be kin to the Bulgar Mountain Giants (whom none, to my knowledge, has ever seen). An expert archer."

  'I've met many expert archers, among them Rackhir the Red Archer who is perhaps the greatest in all the multiverse, but never one called Oladahn. Was he a good friend of yours?'

  'My closest friend for a long while."

  'Perhaps I have borne that name," Jhary-a-Conel said frown­ing. 'I have borne many, of course. It seems vaguely familiar. Just as the name Corum or Urlik would seem familiar to you.'

  'Urlik?' Hawkmoon felt the blood leave his face. 'What know you of that name?'

  'It is your name. Or one of them, at least. As is Corum. Though Corum was not a human manifestation and would therefore be a little harder for you to recall.'

  'You speak so casually of incarnations! Do you really mean to claim you can recall past lives as easily as I can recall past ad­ventures?'

  'Some lives. By no means all. And that is just as well. In an­other incarnation I might not remember this one, for instance. Yet my name has not changed, in this case, I note.'

  Jhary laughed. 'My memories come and go. Just as yours do. It is what saves us.'

  'You speak in riddles, friend Jhary.'

  'So you often tell me.' Jhary shrugged. 'Yet this adventure does seem a little different, I'll admit. I am in the peculiar situa­tion, at present, of being shifted willy-nilly through the dimen­sions at present. Disruptions on a large scale - brought about by the experiments of some foolish sorcerer, no doubt. And then, of course, there is always the interest that the Lords of Chaos show when such opportunities are offered. I would imagine they are playing some part in this."

  'The Lords of Chaos? Who are they?'

  'Ah, it is something you must discover, if you do not know. Some say that they dwell at the end of time and their attempts to manipulate the universe according to their own desires are a result of their own world's dying. But that is a rather nar­row theory. Others suggest that they do not exist at all, but are conjured up, periodically, by men's imaginations.'

  'You are a sorcerer yourself, Master Jhary?' asked Katinka van Bak, falling back to join them.

  'I think not.'

  'A philosopher at least,’ she said.

  'My experience moulds my philosophy, that is all.'

  And Jhary seemed to tire of the conversation and refused to be drawn further on that particular topic.

  'My only experience of the sort you hint at," said Hawkmoon, 'was with the Runestaff. Could the Runestaff be involved in what is happening in the Bulgar Mountains?'

  'The Runestaff? Perhaps.'

  Snow had fallen heavily on the great city of Pesht. Built of white, carved stone, the city had survived the Dark Empire sieges and now looked much as it had done before Granbretan had ridden out on her conquerings. Snow sparkled on every sur­face and its glare, as they approached at night under a full moon, made it seem that Pesht burned with white fire.

  They arrived at the gates after midnight and had some dif­ficulty rousing the guard who let them in with a considerable amount of grumbling and querying their business in the city. Down broad, deserted avenues they rode, seeking the palace of Prince Karl of Pesht. Prince Karl had once courted Katinka van Blak and asked her to be his wife. They had been lovers for three years, the warrior woman had told Hawkmoon, but she would never marry him. Now he had married a princess from Zagredia and was happy. They were friends. She had stayed with him during her flight from Ukrainia. He would be sur­prised to see her.

  Prince Karl of Pesht was surprised. He arrived in his own ornate hall in a brocade dressing gown, his eyes still thick with sleep, but he was pleased to see Katinka van Bak.

  'Katinka! I thought you planned to winter in the Kamarg!'

  'That had been my plan.' She went forward and seized the tall old man's shoulders, kissing him swiftly on both cheeks in the military fashion, so that it seemed more as if she was pre­senting a soldier with a medal than greeting an ex-lover. 'But Duke Dorian here persuaded me to accompany him to the Bul­gar Mounains.'

  'Dorian? The Duke of Koln. I have heard much of you, young man. It is an honour to have you under my roof." Prince Karl smiled as he shook Hawkmoon's hand. 'And this?'

  'A companion of the road,' said Hawkmoon. 'His name is a strange one. Jhary-a-Conel.'

  Jhary swept off his hat in an elaborate bow. 'An honour to meet the Prince of Pesht,' he said.
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  Prince Karl laughed. 'A privilege to entertain any companion of the great Hero of Londra. This is wonderful. You will stay for some time?'

  'For the night only, I regret,' said Hawkmoon. 'Our business in the Bulgar Mountains is urgent.'

  'What could possibly take you there? Even the legendary mountain giants are all dead now, I gather.'

  'You have not told the prince?" said Hawkmoon in surprise, turning to Katinka van Bak. 'Of the raiders. I thought...'

  'I did not wish to alarm him,' she said.

  'But his city is not so distant from the Bulgar Mountains that it cannot be in danger of attack!' Hawkmoon said.

  'Attack? What is this? An enemy from beyond the moun­tains?' Prince Karl's expression changed.

  'Bandits,' said Katinka van Bak, darting a hard, meaning glance at Hawkmoon. 'A city of the size of Pesht has nothing to fear. A land so well defended as yours is under no threat."

  'But ...' Hawkmoon restrained himself. Plainly Katinka van Bak had a reason for not telling the Prince of Pesht all she knew. But what could that reason possibly be? Did she suspect Prince Karl of being in league with her enemies? If so, she should have warned him earlier. Besides, it was inconceivable that this fine old man would ally him with such a rabble. He had fought well and nobly against the Dark Empire and had been impris­oned for his pains, though he had not been subjected to the in­dignities normally visited upon captured enemy aristocrats by the Dark Empire.

  'You will be weary from so much riding,' said Prince Karl tactfully. He had already ordered his servants to prepare rooms for his guests. 'You will want to seek your beds. I have been sel­fish in thinking only of my own pleasure at seeing you again, Katinka, and meeting this hero here.' He smiled and put his arm around Hawkmoon's shoulders. 'But at breakfast, perhaps, we can talk a little. Before you leave?'

  'It would please me greatly, sire," said Hawkmoon.

  And when Hawkmoon lay in a great bed in a well-appointed room in which a comfortable fire blazed, he watched the sha­dows playing on the rich tapestries which decorated the walls and he brooded for a few minutes on the reasons for Katinka van Bak's reticence before falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  The big sleigh could have taken a dozen armoured men and could have been sold for a fortune, for it was inlaid with gold, platinum, ivory and ebony, as well as precious jewels. The carv­ings cut into the wood of its frame were the work of a master. Hawkmoon and Katinka van Bak had been reluctant to ac­cept the gift from Prince Karl, but he was insistent. 'It is what you will need in this weather. Your riding beasts can follow and thus be fresh when you need them.' Eight black geldings pulled the sleigh and they were clad in harness of black leather and fine silver. Silver bells had been fixed to the harness, but these had been muffled for obvious reasons.

  The snow was falling thickly and the roads which led to Pesht were all slippery with ice. It was logical to use a sleigh under such circumstances. The sleigh was piled with provisions, with furs, with a pavilion which could be quickly erected in even the worst weather. There were ancient devices, relatives to the flame-lances, on which food could be prepared. And there seemed enough food of all kinds to feed a small army. Prince Karl had not been expressing mere politeness when he had said he was delighted to receive them.

  Jhary-a-Conel felt no reluctance in accepting the sleigh. He laughed with pleasure as he climbed in and seated himself amidst a profusion of expensive furs. 'Remember when you were Urlik,' he said, addressing Hawkmoon, 'Urlik Skarsol, Prince of the Southern Ice. Bears drew your carriage then!'

  'I remember no such experience,' said Hawkmoon sharply. 'I wish I could understand your motives in continuing this pre­tence.'

  'Ah, well,' replied Jhary philosophically, 'perhaps you will understand later."

  Prince Karl of Pesht bid them farewell personally, waving to them from Pesht's impressive walls until they were out of sight.

  The great sleigh moved swiftly and Hawkmoon wondered why the speed of its travelling filled him with a mixture of exhil­aration and misgivings. Again Jhary had mentioned something which roused an echo of memory. And yet it was obvious to him that he could never have been this 'Urlik' - for all he seemed to remember dreaming once of such a name.

  And now the going was speedy, for the weather had been turned to their advantage. The eight black geldings seemed tire­less as they strained in their harness, dragging the sleigh closer and closer to the Bulgar Mountains.

  But still Hawkmoon had a terrifying sense of familiarity. The image of a silver chariot, its four wheels fixed to skis, moving implacably over a great ice plain. Another image of a ship - but a ship which travelled upon another ice plain. And they were not the same worlds - of that he was sure. Neither was either one this world, his world. He drove the thoughts away as best he could, but they were persistent.

  Perhaps he should put all his questions to Katinka van Bak and to Jhary-a-Conel, but he could not bring himself to ask them. He felt that the answers might not be to his taste.

  So they drove on through the swirling snow and the ground rose steeply and the speed of their travelling decreased a little, but not very much.

  From what he could see of the surrounding landscape, there was no evidence at all of recent raids. Sitting with his hands on the reins of the eight black geldings, Hawkmoon put this to Katinka van Bak.

  Her answer was brief:

  'Why should there be such signs? I told you that they raided only on the other side of the mountains.'

  'Then there must be an explanation for that,' Hawkmoon said. 'And if we find the explanation we might also find their weakness.'

  Finally the roads became too steep and the geldings' hooves slipped on the ice as they strove to haul the sleigh behind them. The snow had abated and it was late in the afternoon. Hawkmoon pointed to a mountain meadow below them. 'The horses may be pastured there. The grazing is reasonable and - look - a cave where they might stable themselves. It is the most we can do for them, I fear.'

  'Very well,' agreed Katinka van Bak. With great difficulty they managed to turn the horses and lead them back down the path until they reached the snow-covered meadow. Hawkmoon cleared snow with his boot to indicate the grass below, but the geldings needed no help from him. They were used to such con­ditions and were soon using their hooves to clear the snow so that they might graze. And since it was almost sunset, the three decided to spend the night in the cave with the horses before continuing into the mountains.

  'These conditions are an advantage,' said Hawkmoon. 'For our enemies have little chance of seeing us.'

  'True enough,' said Katinka van Bak.

  'And similarly,' Hawkmoon went on, "we must be wary. For we shall not see them until they are upon us. Do you know this area, Katinka van Bak?'

  'I know it fairly well,' she told him. She was lighting a fire inside the cave for their cooking stoves, provided by the prince, did not give out enough heat to warm the cave.

  'This is snug,' said Jhary-a-Conel. 'I would not mind spend­ing the rest of the winter here. Then we could travel on when spring comes.'

  Katinka offered him a glance of contempt. He grinned and kept silence for a while.

  They led their horses now, beneath a cold, hard sky. Save for a little withered moss and some stunted grey and brown birches, nothing grew in these mountains. A sharp wind blew. A few car­rion birds wheeled away amongst the jagged peaks. The sounds of their breathing, of their horses' hooves clicking on the rocks, of their own slippery progress, were the only sounds. The scen­ery viewed from these high mountain paths was beautiful in the extreme, yet it was also deadly. It was dead. It was cold. It was cruel. Many travellers must have died in these parts dur­ing the season of winter.

  Hawkmoon wore a thick fur robe over his leather coat. Though he sweated, he did not dare take any of his clothing off for fear he would freeze to the spot when he stopped. The others, too, wore heavy furs - hoods, gloves and boots as well as coats. And the climbing was almost always upwar
d. Only occasionally might a path take a downward turn, only to soar again around the next bend.

  Yet the mountains, for all their deadly beauty, seemed peace­ful. An immense sense of peace filled the valleys, and Hawkmoon could barely believe that a great force of bandits hid here. There was no atmosphere to indicate that the mountains had been invaded. He felt as if he were one of the first human beings ever to come this way. Although the going was difficult and very wearying, he felt more relaxed here than he had felt since he had been a child in Koln, when the old Duke, his father, had ruled. His responsibilities had become simple. To stay alive.

  And at last they reached a slightly wider path where there was room enough for Hawkmoon to stretch to his full length had he so desired. And this path ended suddenly at a big, black cave entrance.

  'What's this?' Hawkmoon asked Katinka. 'It seems a dead end. Is it a tunnel?'

  'Aye,' replied Katinka van Bak. "It's a tunnel.'

  'And how much further do we journey when we reach the other end of the tunnel?'

  Hawkmoon leaned against the rock wall, just at the entrance to the tunnel.

  'That depends,' said Katinka van Bak mysteriously. And she would not say more.

  Hawkmoon was too weary to ask her what she meant. Jerk­ing his body forward, he plunged into the tunnel, leading his horse behind him, glad that snow no longer dragged at his boots once he had gone a few yards into the great cavern. Inside it was quite warm and there was a smell. It was almost like the smell of spring. Hawkmoon remarked on it, but neither of the others could smell the odour so that he wondered if perhaps some per­fume clung to his big fur cloak. The floor of the cavern level­led out now and it became much easier to walk. 'It is hard to believe," said Hawkmoon, 'that this place is natural. It is a won­der of the world.'

  They had been walking for an hour, with no sight of the other end of the tunnel, when Hawkmoon began to feel nervous.

  'It cannot be natural,' he repeated. He ran his gloved hands along the walls, but there were no signs of tools having been used to create them. He turned back to the others and thought, in the gloom, that he noticed peculiar expressions on both their faces. 'What do you think? You know this place, Katinka van Bak. Are there any mentions of it in the histories? In legends?'