The History of the Runestaff

by Michael Moorcock

  "Duke Dorian...."

  "What is it? Do not bother to save the ring. Just get rid of the thing."

  "No—it is the ring itself. Look—it has a peculiar design...."

  Impatiently Hawkmoon crossed the dimly lit hold and peered at the thing, gasping as he recognized it.

  "No! It cannot be!"

  The ring was Yisselda's. It was the ring Count Brass had placed on her finger to mark her betrothal to Dorian Hawkmoon.

  Numbed with horror, Hawkmoon took the mummified hand, a look of incomprehension on his face.

  "What is it?" Oladahn whispered. "What is it that so disturbs you?"

  "It is hers. It is Yisselda's."

  "But how could she have come to be sailing this ocean so many hundreds of miles from the Kamarg?

  It is not possible, Duke Dorian."

  "The ring is hers." Hawkmoon gazed at the hand, inspecting it eagerly as realization struck him. "But—the hand is not. See, the ring barely fits the little finger. Count Brass placed it on the middle finger, and even then it was a loose fit. This is the hand of some thief." He wrenched the precious ring from the finger and threw the hand down. "Someone who was in the Kamarg, perhaps, and stole the ring...." He shook his head. "It's unlikely. But what is the explanation?"

  "Perhaps she journeyed this way—seeking you, maybe," Oladahn suggested.

  "She'd be foolish if she did. But it is just possible.

  However, if that's the case, where is Yisselda now?"

  Oladahn was about to speak, when there came a low, terrifying chuckling sound from above. They looked up at the entrance to the hold.

  A mad, grinning face looked down at them. Somehow one of the insane warriors had managed to catch the ship. Now he prepared to leap down on them.

  Hawkmoon just managed to draw his sword as the madman attacked, sword slashing. Metal hit metal.

  Oladahn drew his own blade, and D'Averc came rushing up, but Hawkmoon shouted, "Take him alive! We must take him alive!"

  As Hawkmoon engaged the madman, D'Averc and Oladahn resheathed their swords and fell on the warrior's back, grasping his arms. Twice he shook them off, but then he went down kicking as they wound length after length of rope around him. And then he lay still, chuckling up at them, his eyes unseeing, his mouth foamflecked.

  "What use is he alive?" D'Averc asked with polite curiosity. "Why not cut his throat and have done with him?"

  "This," Hawkmoon said, "is a ring I found just now." He held it up. "It belongs to Yisselda, Count Brass's daughter. I want to know how these men got it."

  "Strange," D'Averc said frowning. "I believe the girl still in the Kamarg, nursing her father."

  "So Count Brass is wounded?"

  D'Averc smiled. "Aye. But the Kamarg still holds against us. I'd sought to disturb you, Duke Dorian. I do not know how badly Count Brass is hurt, but he still lives. And that wise man of his, Bowgentle, helps him command his troops. The last I heard, it was stalemate between the Dark Empire and the Kamarg."

  "And you heard nothing of Yisselda? Nothing of her leaving the Kamarg?"

  "No," said D'Averc, frowning. "But I seem to remember. . . As, yes—a man serving in Count Brass's army. I believe he was approached and persuaded to try to kidnap the girl, but the attempt was unsuccessful."

  "How do you know?"

  "Juan Zhinaga—the man—disappeared. Presumably Count Brass discovered his perfidy and slew him."

  "I find it hard to believe that Zhinaga should be a traitor. I knew the man slightly—a captain of cavalry, he was."

  "Captured by us in the second battle against the Kamarg." D'Averc smiled. "I believe he was a German, and we had some of his family in our safekeeping. ..."

  "You blackmailed him!"

  "He was blackmailed, though do not give me the credit. I merely heard of the plan during a conference in Londra between the various commanders who had been summoned by King Huon to inform him of developments in the campaigns we are waging in Europe."

  Hawkmoon's brow furrowed. "But suppose Zhinaga was successful—somehow not managing to reach your people with Yisselda, being stopped on the way by the Mad God's men...."

  D'Averc shook his head. "They would never range as far as southern France. We should have heard of them if they had."

  "Then what is the explanation?"

  "Let us ask this gentleman," D'Averc suggested, prodding at the madman, whose chuckles had died down now so that they were almost inaudible.

  "Let us hope we can get sense from him," Oladahn said dubiously.

  "Would pain do the trick, do you thing?" D'Averc asked.

  "I doubt it," Hawkmoon said. "They know no fear. We must try another method." He looked in disgust at the madman. "We'll leave him for a while and hope he calms a little."

  They went up on deck, closing the hatch cover.

  The sun was beginning to set, and the coastline of Crimia was now in sight—black crags sharp against the purple sky. The water was calm and dappled with the fading sunlight, and the wind blew steadily northward.

  "I'd best correct our course," D'Averc suggested.

  "We seem to be sailing a little too far to the north."

  He moved along the deck to unbind the wheel and spin it several points south.

  Hawkmoon nodded absently, watching D'Averc, his great mask flung back from his head, expertly controlling the course of the ship.

  "We'll have to anchor offshore tonight," Oladahn said, "and sail in in the morning."

  Hawkmoon did not reply. His head was full of unanswered questions. The exertions of the past twenty four hours had brought him close to exhaustion, and the fear in his mind threatened to drive him to a madness fully as dreadful as that of the man in the hold.

  Later that night, by the light of lamps suspended from the ceiling, they studied the sleeping face of the man they had captured. The lamps swung as the ship rocked at anchor, casting shifting shadows on the sides of the hold and over the great piles of booty heaped everywhere. A rat chittered, but the men ignored the sound. They had all slept a little and felt more relaxed.

  Hawkmoon knelt down beside the bound man and touched his face. Instantly the eyes opened, staring around dully, no longer mad. They even seemed a little puzzled.

  "What is your name?" Hawkmoon asked.

  "Coryanthum of Kerch—who are you? Where am I?"

  "You should know," Oladahn said. "On board your own ship. Do you not remember? You and your fellows attacked our vessel. There was a fight. We escaped from you, and you swam after us and tried to kill us."

  "I remember setting sail," Coryanthum said, his voice bewildered, "but nothing else." Then he tried to struggle up. "Why am I bound?"

  "Because you are dangerous," D'Averc said lightly. "You are mad."

  Coryanthum laughed, a purely natural laugh. "I, mad? Nonsense!"

  The three looked at one another, puzzled. It was true that the man seemed to have no hint of madness about him now.

  Understanding began to dawn on Hawkmoon's face. "What is the very last thing you remember?"

  "The captain addressing us."

  "What did he say?"

  "That we were to take part in a ceremony—drinking a special drink. . . . Nothing much more." Coryanthum frowned. "We drank the drink...."

  "Describe your sail," Hawkmoon said.

  "Our sail? Why?"

  "Is there anything special about it?"

  "Not that I remember. It's canvas—a dark blue. That's all."

  "You are a merchant seaman?" Hawkmoon asked.

  "Aye."

  "And this is your first voyage on this ship?"

  "Aye."

  "When did you sign on?"

  Coryanthum looked impatient. "Last night, my friend—on the Day of the Horse by Kerch reckoning."

  "And in universal reckoning?"

  The sailor wrinkled his brow. "Oh—the eleventh of the third month."

  "Three months ago," said D'Averc.

  "Eh?" Coryanthum peered through the glo
om at the Frenchman. "Three months? What d'you mean?"

  "You were drugged," Hawkmoon explained.

  "Drugged and then used to commit the foulest acts of piracy ever heard of. Do you know anything of the Cult of the Mad God?"

  "A little. I heard that it is situated somewhere in Ukrania and that its adherents have been venturing out lately—even onto the high seas."

  "Did you know that your sail now bears the sign of the Mad God? That a few hours ago, you raved and giggled in mad bloodlust? Look at your body. . . ." Hawkmoon bent down to cut the bonds. "Feel your neck."

  Coryanthum of Kerch stood up slowly, wondering at his own nakedness, his fingers going slowly to his neck and touching the collar there. "I—I don't understand. Is this a trick?"

  "An evil trick, and one we did not commit," Oladahn said. "You were drugged until you went insane, then ordered to kill and collect all the loot you could. Doubtless your 'merchant captain' was the only man who knew what would happen to you, and it's almost certain he's not aboard now. Do you remember any

  thing? Any instructions about where you should go?"

  "None."

  "Without doubt the captain meant to rejoin the ship later and guide it to whatever port he uses,"

  D'Averc said. "Maybe there is a ship in regular contact with the others, if they are all full of such fools as this one."

  "There must be a large supply of the drug somewhere aboard," Oladahn said. "Doubtless they fed off it regularly. It was only because we bound this fellow that he did not get the chance to replenish himself."

  "How do you feel?" Hawkmoon asked the sailor.

  "Weak—drained of all life and feeling."

  "Understandable," said Oladahn. "It's sure that drug kills you in the end. A monstrous plan! Take innocent men, feed them a drug that turns them mad and ultimately destroys them, use them to murder and loot, then collect the proceeds. I've heard of nothing like it before. I'd thought the Cult of the Mad God to be comprised of honest fanatics, but it seems a cooler intelligence controls it."

  "On the seas, at any rate," Hawkmoon said. "However, I'd like to find the man responsible for all this. He alone may know where Yisselda is."

  "First, I'd suggest we take up the sail," D'Averc said. "We'll drift into the harbor on the tide. Our reception would not be pleasant if they saw our sail. Also, we can make use of this treasure. Why, we are rich men!"

  "You are still my prisoner, D'Averc," Hawkmoon reminded him. "But it is true we could dispose of some of the treasure, since the poor souls who owned it are all dead now, and give the rest into the safekeeping of some honest man, to compensate those who have lost relatives and fortunes at the hands of the mad sailors."

  "Then what?" asked Oladahn.

  "Then we set sail again—and wait for this ship's master to seek her out."

  "Can we be sure he will? What if he hears of our visit to Simferopol?" Oladahn asked.

  Hawkmoon smiled grimly. "Then doubtless he will still wish to seek us out."

  Chapter Eight - MAD GOD'S MAN

  AND SO THE loot was sold in Simferopol, some of it used to provision the craft and buy new equipment and horses, and the rest given into the safekeeping of a merchant whom all recommended as the most honest in the whole of Crimia. Not much behind the captured ship, Smiling Girl limped in, and Hawkmoon hastily bought the captain's silence regarding the nature of the blacksailed ship. He recovered his possessions, including the saddlebag containing Rinal's gift, and, with Oladahn and D'Averc, reboarded the ship, sailing on the evening tide. They left Coryanthum with the merchant to recover.

  For more than a week the black ship drifted, usually becalmed, for the wind had dropped to almost nothing. By Hawkmoon's reckoning they were drifting close to the channel that separated the Black Sea from the Azov Sea, near to Kerch, where Coryanthum had been recruited.

  D'Averc lounged in a hammock he had hung for himself amidships, occasionally coughing theatrically and remarking on his boredom. Oladahn sat often in the crownest, scanning the sea, while Hawkmoon paced the decks, beginning to wonder if his plan had had any substance to it other than his need to know what had become of Yisselda. He was even beginning to doubt that the ring had been hers, deciding that perhaps several such rings had been made in the Kamarg over the years.

  Then, one morning, a sail appeared on the horizon, coming from the northwest. Oladahn saw it first and called to Hawkmoon to come on deck. Hawkmoon rushed up and peered ahead. It might be the ship they awaited.

  "Get below," he called. "Everybody get below."

  Oladahn scrambled down the rigging, while D'Averc, suddenly active, swung out of his hammock and strolled to the ladder that led belowdecks. They met in the darkness of the central hold and waited. . . .

  An hour seemed to pass before they heard timber bump against timber and knew that the other ship had drawn alongside. It might still be an innocent vessel curious about a ship drifting apparently unmanned.

  Not much later Hawkmoon heard the sound of booted feet on the deck above; a slow, measured tread that went the length of the whole deck and back again.

  Then there was silence as the man above either entered a cabin or climbed to the bridge.

  Tension grew as the sound of the footsteps came again, this time walking directly toward the central hold.

  Hawkmoon saw a silhouette above, peering down into the darkness where they crouched. The figure paused, then began to descend the ladder. As he did so, Hawkmoon crept forward.

  When the newcomer had reached the bottom, Hawkmoon sprang, his arm encircling the man's throat. He was a giant, more than six and a half feet tall, with a huge black bushy beard and plaited hair, wearing a brass breastplate over his shirt of black silk.

  He growled in surprise and swung around, carrying Hawkmoon with him. The giant was incredibly strong. His huge fingers went up to Hawkmoon's arm and began to prise it loose.

  "Quick—help me hold him," Hawkmoon cried, and his friends rushed forward to fling themselves on the giant and bear him down.

  D'Averc drew his sword. Wearing his boar mask and the metal finery of Granbretan, he looked danger

  ous and terrible as he delicately placed the tip of his sword against the giant's throat.

  "Your name?" D'Averc demanded, his voice booming in his helmet.

  "Captain Shagarov. Where is my crew?"

  The blackbearded giant glared up at them, unabashed by his capture. "Where is my crew?"

  "You mean the madmen you sent akilling?" Oladahn said. "They are drowned, all but one, and he told us of your evil treachery."

  "Fools!" Shagarov cursed. "You are three men. Did you think to trap me—when I have a shipful of fighters aboard my other ship?"

  "We have disposed of one shipload, as you'll note,"

  D'Averc told him with a chuckle. "Now that we are used to the work, doubtless we can dispose of another."

  For a moment fear crept into Shagarov's eyes; then his expression hardened. "I do not believe you. Those who sailed this ship lived only to kill. How could you ... ?"

  "Well, we did," D'Averc said. He turned his great, helmeted head toward Hawkmoon. "Shall we go on deck and put the rest of our plan into operation?"

  "A moment." Hawkmoon bent close to Shagarov.

  "I want to question him. Shagarov—did your men capture a girl at any time?"

  "They had orders not to kill any girl but to bring them to me."

  "Why?"

  "I know not—I was ordered to send girls to him—and girls I sent him." Shagarov laughed. "You'll not keep me for long, you know. You'll all three be dead within an hour. The men will get suspicious."

  "Why didn't you bring any of them aboard with you? Perhaps because they are not madmen—because even they might be disgusted by what they found?"

  Shagarov shrugged. "They'll come when I yell."

  "Possibly," said D'Averc. "Rise, please."

  "These girls," Hawkmoon continued. "Where did you send them—and to whom?"

  "In
land, of course, to my master—the Mad God."

  "So you do serve the Mad God—you are not deceiving people into believing these acts of piracy are committed by his followers."

  "Aye—I serve him, though I'm no cult member. His agents pay me well to raid the seas and send the booty to him."

  "Why this way?"

  Shagarov sneered. "The cult has no sailing men. Some one of them hit this plan to raise money—though I know not the purpose for the loot—and approached me." He rose to his feet, towering over them. "Come—let's go up. It will amuse me to see what you do."

  D'Averc nodded to the other two, who went back into the shadows and produced long, unlit brands, one for each of them. D'Averc prodded at Shagarov to follow Oladahn up the companionway.

  Slowly they climbed to the deck, to emerge at last in the sunlight and see a big, handsome threemaster anchored beside them.

  The men on board the other ship understood at once what had happened and made to move forward, but Hawkmoon dug his sword into Shagarov's ribs and called, "Do not move, or we will kill your captain."

  "Kill me—and they kill you," Shagarov rumbled. Who gains?"

  "Silence," said Hawkmoon. "Oladahn, light the brands."

  Oladahn applied flint and tinder to the first brand.

  It flared into life. He lit the others off it and handed one each to his companions.

  "Now," Hawkmoon said. "This ship is covered in oil. Once we touch our brands to it, the whole vessel goes up in flames—and most likely your ship too. So we advise you to make no move toward rescuing your captain."

  "So we all burn," Shagarov said. "You're as mad as the ones you slew."

  Hawkmoon shook his head. "Oladahn, ready the skiff."

  Oladahn went aft to the furthermost hatch, swinging a derrick over it, hauling back the hatch cover, and then disappearing below, taking the cable with him.

  Hawkmoon saw the men on the other ship begin to stir and he moved the brand menacingly. The heat from it turned his face dark red, and the flames reflected fiercely in his eyes.

  Now Oladahn reemerged and began to work the specially geared winch with one hand while holding his brand with the other. Slowly something began to appear in the hatch, something that barely cleared the wide opening.