Oladahn watched them work, nursing his twisted arm. "A pity," he said with a sigh. "It was an exploit that should be recorded."
Chapter Eight - THE DARK EMPIRE CAMP
"BROOD OF THE MOUNTAIN GIANTS! I'll stifle to death before we've gone a mile!" The muffled voice of Oladahn came from within the grotesque helmet as he tried to tug himself free of its engulfing weight.
They sat, all four, in their room above the tavern, trying on the captured armor.
Hawkmoon, too, was finding the stuff uncomfortable. Apart from the fact that it did not fit him properly, it made him feel distinctly claustrophobic. He had worn something like it some time before, when disguised in the wolf armor of Baron Meliadus's order, but if anything, the boar armor was even heavier and far less comfortable. It must be that much worse for Yisselda. Only D'Averc was used to it and had donned his own, to look with some relish and amusement at their first encounter with the uniform of his order.
"No wonder you claim ill health," Hawkmoon told him. "I know of nothing less healthy. I'm tempted to forget the whole plan."
"You'll become more used to it as we ride,"
D'Averc assured him. "A little chaffing, a little stuffiness; then you'll find you'll feel naked without it."
"I'd rather be naked," Oladahn protested, yanking off the leering boar mask at last. It fell with a clatter to the floor.
"Careful with it," D'Averc said, wagging a finger.
"We don't want to damage any more."
Oladahn gave the helmet an extra kick.
A day and a night later, they were riding deep into Shekia. There was no doubt that the Dark Empire had conquered the province, for towns and villages were everywhere laid waste, crucified corpses hung along every road, carrion birds were thick in the air and even thicker on the ground where they feasted.
The night had been as light as if the sun were permanently on the horizon, lit by the funeral pyres of villages, farms, towns, villas, and cities. And the black hordes of the Island Empire of Granbretan, brands in one hand, swords in the other, rode like demons from hell, howling and shrieking across the broken land.
Survivors hid, cringing from the four as they rode in disguise through this world of terror, galloping as fast as they could, for none suspected them. They were just one small pack of murderers and looters among many, and neither friend nor foe had any suspicion of their real identities.
Now it was morning, a morning overcast with black smoke, warmed by distant fires, a morning of ashcovered fields and trampled crops, of broken flowers and bloody corpses, a morning like any other morning in a land under the heel of Granbretan.
Along the churned mud of the road, a group of riders came toward them, swathed in great canvas night cloaks that covered their bemasked heads as well as their bodies. They rode powerful black horses and were hunched in their saddles as if they had been riding for many days.
As they drew close, Hawkmoon murmured, "Dark Empire men for certain, and they seem to be taking an interest in us...."
The leader pushed back his canvas cowl and revealed a huge boar mask, larger and more ornate than even D'Averc's. He reined in his black stallion, and his men came to a halt behind him.
"Silence, all three," murmured D'Averc, leading them up to the waiting warriors. "I'll speak."
Now from the leader of the boar warriors came a peculiar snorting, snuffling, and whining voice that must be speaking, thought Hawkmoon, the secret language of the Order of the Boar.
He was surprised to hear similar sounds begin to issue from D'Averc's throat. The conversation continued for some rime, D'Averc pointing back down the road, the boar leader jerking his helm mask in the other direction. Then the leader urged his horse on, and he and his men filed past the nervous three and continued on up the road.
"What did he want?" Hawkmoon asked.
"Wanted to know if we'd seen any livestock. They're a foraging party of some sort, out to locate provisions for the camp ahead."
"What camp's that?"
"A big one, he said, about four miles further on.
They're getting ready to attack one of the last cities still standing against them—Bradichla. I know the place. It had beautiful architecture."
"Then we are close to Osterland," Yisselda said, "and beyond Osterland lies Italia, and beyond Italia, Provence... home."
"True," said D'Averc. "Your geography is excellent. But we are not home yet, and the most dangerous part of the journey has still to be encountered."
"What shall we do about this camp," Oladahn said, "Skirt it or try to ride through it?"
"It's a vast camp," D'Averc told him. "Our best chance would be to go through the middle, possibly even spend the night in it and try to learn something of the Dark Empire's plans—whether they have heard we are nearby, for instance."
Hawkmoon's muffled voice came from the helmet.
"I am not sure it is not too dangerous," he said doubtfully. "Yet if we try to skirt the camp, we might arouse suspicion. Very well, we go through it."
"Will we not have to remove our masks, Dorian?" Yisselda asked him.
"No fear of that," D'Averc said. "The native Granbretanian often sleeps in his mask, hates to reveal his face."
Hawkmoon had noticed the weariness in Yisselda's voice and knew that they must rest soon; it would have to be in the Granbretanian camp.
They had expected the camp to be huge, but not as vast as this. In the distance beyond it was the walled city of Bradichla, its spires and facades visible even from here.
"They are remarkably beautiful," said D'Averc with a sigh. He shook his head. "What a pity they must fall tomorrow. They were fools to resist this army."
"It is of incredible size," said Oladahn. "Surely unnecessary to defeat that town?"
"The Dark Empire aims at speed of conquest," Hawkmoon told him. "I have seen larger armies than this used on smaller cities. But the camp covers a great distance, and organization will not be perfect. I think we can hide here."
There were canopies, tents, even huts built here and there, cooking fires of all descriptions on which food of all descriptions was being prepared, and corrals for horses, bullocks, and mules. Slaves hauled great war machines through the mud of the camp, goaded on by men of the Order of the Ant. Banners fluttered in the breeze, and the standards of a score of military orders were stuck here and there in the ground. From a distance, it seemed like some primeval concourse of beasts as a line of wolves tramped across a rained field or a gathering of moles (one of the engineering orders) grouped about a cooking fire, while elsewhere could be seen wasps, ravens, ferrets, rats, foxes, tigers, boars, flies, hounds, badgers, goats, wolverines, otters, and even a few mantises, select guards whose Grand Constable was King Huon himself.
Hawkmoon himself recognized several of the banners—that of Adaz Promp, fat Grand Constable of the Order of the Hound; Brenal Farnu's ornate flag, showing him to be a Baron of Granbretan and the Rats' Grand Constable; the fluttering standard of Shenegar Trott, Count of Sussex. Hawkmoon guessed that this city must be the last to fall in a sustained campaign and that was why the army was so large and attended by so many highranking warlords. He made out Shenegar Trott himself, being borne in a horse litter toward his tent, his robes covered in jewels, his pale silver mask wrought in the parody of a human face.
Shenegar Trott seemed like a softliving, softbrained aristocrat, ruined by rich living, but Hawkmoon had seen Shenegar Trott do battle at the Ford of Weizna on the Rhine, had seen him deliberately sink himself and horse under water and ride along the river bottom, to emerge on the enemy's bank; It was the puzzling thing about all Dark Empire noblemen.
They seemed soft, lazy, and selfindulgent; yet they were as strong as the beasts they pretended to be and were often braver. Shenegar Trott was also the man who had hacked off the limb of a screaming child and eaten a bite from it while its mother was forced to watch.
"Well," said Hawkmoon, taking a deep breath, "let's ride through and camp as near
to the far side as we can. I hope we'll be able to slip away in the morning."
They rode slowly through the camp. From time to time a boar would greet them and D'Averc would answer for them. Eventually they came to the farthest edge of the camp and dismounted. They had brought the gear stolen from the men they had killed in the tavern, and now they set it up without suspicion, for it bore no special insignia. D'Averc watched the others work. It would not do, he had told them, for one of his obvious rank to be seen helping his men.
A group of engineers of the Badger Order came tramping around with a cartload of spare axheads, sword pommels, arrowheads, spear tips, and the like.
They also had a sharpening machine.
"Any work for us, brother boars?" they grunted, pausing beside the little camp.
Hawkmoon boldly drew his blunted blade. "This needs sharpening."
"Aye, and I've lost a bow and a quiver of arrows," Oladahn said, eyeing a batch of bows in the bottom of the cart.
"What about your mate?" said the man in the badger mask. "He's got no sword at all." He indicated Yisselda.
"Then give him one, fool," barked D'Averc in his most lordly tone, and the badger hastily obeyed.
When they had been reequipped and had their weapons freshly sharpened, Hawkmoon felt his confidence come back. He was pleased at the coolness of his deception.
Only Yisselda seemed downhearted. She hefted the great sword she had been forced to strap around her waist. "Much more weight," she said, "and I'll fall to my knees."
"Best get inside the tent," Hawkmoon said. "There you'll be able to take off some of the gear, at least."
D'Averc seemed unsettled, watching Hawkmoon and Oladahn prepare a cooking fire.
"What ails you, D'Averc?" Hawkmoon asked, looking up and peering through the eyeslits of his helmet. "Sit down. The food will not be long."
"I smell something wrong," D'Averc murmured. "I am not altogether happy that we are in no danger."
"Why? Do you think the Badgers suspected us?"
"Not at all." D'Averc looked across the camp.
Evening darkened the sky, and the warriors were beginning to settle down; there was less movement now. On the walls of the distant city, soldiers lined the battlements, ready to resist an army that none had resisted to date, save for the Kamarg. "Not at all,"
D'Averc repeated, half to himself, "but I would feel relieved if..."
"If what?"
"I think I will walk about the camp a little, see what gossip I can hear."
"Is that wise? Besides, if we are approached by others of the Boar Order, we'll not be able to speak the language."
"I'll not be gone long. Get into your tents as soon as you can."
Hawkmoon wanted to stop D'Averc, but he did not know how to without attracting unwanted attention. He watched D'Averc stride off through the camp.
Just then a voice said from behind them, "A nice looking piece of sausage you have there, brothers."
Hawkmoon turned. It was a warrior in the mask of the Order of the Wolf.
"Aye," said Oladahn quickly. "Aye—will you have a piece . . . brother?" He cut a slice of sausage and handed it to the man in the wolf mask. The warrior turned, lifted his mask, popped the food into his mouth, lowered his mask quickly, and turned back again.
"Thanks," he said. "I've been traveling for days on next to nothing. Our commander drives you hard. We just came in. Riding faster than a flying Frenchman." He laughed. "All the way from Provence."
"From Provence?" Hawkmoon said involuntarily.
"Aye. Been there?"
"Once or twice. Have we won the Kamarg yet?"
"As good as. Commander thinks it's a matter of days. They're virtually leaderless, running out of provisions. Those weapons they've got have killed a million of us, but they won't kill many more before we ride over them!"
"What happened to Count Brass, their leader?"
"Dead, I heard—or as good as. Their morale's getting worse every day. By the time we get back, I should think it'll be all over there. I'll be glad. I've been pitched there for months. This is the first change of scenery since we began the damned campaign. Thanks for the sausage, brothers. Good killing tomorrow! "
Hawkmoon watched the wolf warrior stamp away into the night that was now lit by a thousand camp fires. He sighed and entered the tent. "You heard that?" he asked Yisselda.
"I heard." She had removed her helmet and greaves and was combing her hair. "It seems my father still lives." She spoke in an overcontrolled tone, and Hawkmoon, even in the darkness of the tent, could see tears in her eyes.
He took her face in his hands and said, "Do not fear, Yisselda. A few days more and we shall be at his side."
"If he lives that long..."
"He awaits us. He will live."
Later Hawkmoon went outside. Oladahn sat by the dying fire, arms around his knees.
"D'Averc has been gone too long," said Oladahn.
"Aye," said Hawkmoon distantly, staring at the faraway walls of the city. "Has he come to harm? I wonder."
"Deserted us, more likely—" Oladahn broke off as several figures emerged from the shadows.
Hawkmoon saw, with sinking heart, that they were boarmasked warriors. "Into your tent, quickly," he murmured to Oladahn.
But it was too late. One of the boars was already talking to Hawkmoon, addressing him in the guttural secret tongue of the order. Hawkmoon nodded and raised a hand as if acknowledging a greeting, hoping that that was all it was, but the boar's tone became more insistent. Hawkmoon tried to enter his tent, but an arm restrained him.
Again the boar spoke to him. Hawkmoon coughed, pretending illness, pointing at his throat. But then the Board said, "I asked you, brother, if you drink with us. Take off that mask!"
Hawkmoon knew that no member of any order would demand of another that he remove his mask—unless he suspected him of wearing it illicitly. He stepped back and drew his sword.
"I regret I should not like to drink with you, brother. But I'll happily fight with you."
Oladahn sprang up beside him, his own sword ready.
"Who are you?" growled the boar. "Why wear the armor of another order? What sense does that make?"
Hawkmoon flung back his helm, revealing his pale face and the black jewel that shone there. "I am Hawkmoon," he said simply, and leaped forward into the mass of astonished warriors.
The pair took the lives of five of the Dark Empire men before the noise of the fight brought others running from all over the camp. Riders galloped up. All around him Hawkmoon was aware of shouts and the babble of voices. His arm rose and fell in the darkness of the press, but soon it was gripped by a dozen hands and he felt himself borne down. A spear haft caught him a buffet in the back of his neck, and he fell into the mud of the field.
Dazed, he was dragged upright and hauled before a tall, blackarmored figure seated on a horse some distance away from the main mass. His mask was lifted back, and he peered up at the horseman.
"Ah, this is pleasant, Duke of Koln," came the deep, musical voice from within the horseman's helm, a voice edged with evil and with malice; a voice Hawkmoon recognized dimly but could not believe in his recognition.
"My long journey has not been wasted," said the horseman, turning to his mounted companion.
"I am glad, my lord," was the reply. "I trust I am now reinstated in the eyes of the KingEmperor?"
Hawkmoon's head jerked up to look at the other man. His eyes blazed as he recognized the elaborate maskhelm of D'Averc.
Thickly, Hawkmoon cried, "So you have betrayed us? Another betrayal! Are all men traitors to Hawkmoon's cause?" He tried to break free, to grab with his hands at D'Averc, but the warriors held him back.
D'Averc laughed. "You are naive, Duke Dorian. ..." He began to cough weakly.
"Have you got the others?" the horseman asked.
"The girl and the little beastman?"
"Aye, your excellency," answered one of the men.
"Then bring
them to my camp. I want to inspect them all closely. This is a very satisfying day for me."
Chapter Nine - THE JOURNEY SOUTH
A STORM had begun to rumble over the camp as Hawkmoon, Oladahn, and Yisselda were dragged through the mud and the filth, past the bright, curious eyes of the warriors, through the noise and confusion, to where a great banner fluttered in the newly come wind.
Lightning suddenly split a jagged gulf in the sky, and thunder growled, then exploded. More lightning came, fast on the thunder's heels, illuminating the scene before them. Hawkmoon gasped as he recognized the banner, tried to speak to Oladahn or Yisselda, but was then bundled into a large pavilion where a masked man sat on a carved chair, D'Averc standing beside him. The man in the chair wore the mask of the Order of the Wolf. The banner had proclaimed him Grand Constable of that order, one of the greatest nobles in all Granbretan, First Chieftain of the Armies of the Dark Empire under the KingEmperor Huon, a Baron of Kroiden—a man Hawkmoon thought dead, was sure he had slain him himself.
"Baron Meliadus!" he grunted. "You did not die at Hamadan."
"No, I did not die, Hawkmoon, though you wounded me sorely. I escaped that battlefield."
Hawkmoon smiled thinly. "Few of your men did. We defeated you—routed you."
Meliadus turned his ornate wolf mask and spoke to a captain who stood nearby. "Bring chains. Bring many chains, strong and of great weight. Heap them on these dogs and rivet them. I want no locks that might be picked. This time I will be sure they are brought to Granbretan."
He left his chair and descended, to peer through the eyeslits in his mask at Hawkmoon's face. "They have discussed you often at King Huon's Court, have devised such exquisite, such elaborate, such splendid punishments for you, traitor. Your dying will take a year or two, and each moment will be agony of mind, spirit, and body. All our ingenuity, Hawkmoon, we have squandered on you."
He stepped back and reached out a black gauntlet to cup Yisselda's hatetwisted face. She turned her head, eyes filled with anger and despair. "And as for you—I offered you all honors to become my wife. Now you will have no honor, but a husband I shall be to you until I tire of you or your body breaks."
The History of the Runestaff Page 28