The History of the Runestaff

by Michael Moorcock

  "Sword of the Dawn, in which the spirit of our god and ancestor dwells; Sword of the Dawn, which made Batach Gerandiun invincible and won us all we have; Sword of the Dawn, which makes the dead come alive, causes the living to remain living, which draws its light from the lifeblood of Men; Sword of the Dawn, accept this, our latest sacrifice, and continue to know that you shall be worshipped for all time while you stay in the Temple of Batach Gerandiun; then Starvel shall never fall! Take this thing, this enemy of ours, this up-start, take this Pahl Bewchard of that coarse caste who call themselves merchants!"

  Bewchard spoke again, his lips writhing, but his voice could not be heard above the hysterical chanting of the other Pirate Lords.

  The knife began to move toward Bewchard's body and Hawkmoon could not restrain himself. The battle-cry of his ancestors came automatically to his lips and he screamed the wild bird-cry and voiced the words:

  "Hawkmoon! Hawkmoon!"

  And he dashed forward at the gathered ghouls, at the noisome pit and its terrible denizens, the frames on which the dead and dying were stretched below the shining, awesome sword.

  "Hawkmoon! Hawkmoon!"

  The Pirate Lords turned, their chanting over. Valjon's eyes widened in rage and he cast back his robe to reveal a sword that was the twin to the one Hawkmoon carried. He cast the knife into the pit of blood and drew his blade.

  "Fool! It is a truth that no stranger who enters Batach's temple ever leaves until his body is drained of its blood!"

  "It is your body will bleed tonight, Valjon!" cried Hawkmoon, and he struck at his enemy. But suddenly there were twenty men blocking his way to Valjon, twenty blades against his one.

  He lashed at them in fury, his throat clogged with the dreadful stench, his eyes dazzled by the light from the sword, catching glimpses of Bewchard struggling in his bonds. He stabbed and a man died, he slashed and another staggered back into the pit to be dragged down by whatever dwelt there, he hacked and another pirate lost a hand. D'Averc, too, did well and they held the pirates at bay.

  For a while it seemed their fury would carry them through all the pirates to Bewchard and save him.

  Hawkmoon hacked his way into the group and managed to reach the edge of the terrible bloodfilled pit, tried to cut Bewchard's bonds while he fought off the pirates at the same time. But then his foot slipped on the edge of the pool and he sank into it up to his ankle.

  He felt something touch his foot, something sinuous and disgusting, withdrew as fast as he could and found his arms clutched by pirates.

  He flung back his head and called: "I am sorry, Bewchard—I was impetuous—but there was no time, no time!"

  "You should not have followed me!" Bewchard cried in misery. "Now you, too, shall suffer my fate and feed the monsters of the pit! Oh, you should not have followed me, Hawkmoon!"

  Chapter Ten - A FRIEND FROM THE SHADOWS

  "I AM AFRAID, friend Bewchard, that your gener-osity was wasted on us!"

  Even in this predicament D'Averc could not resist the irony.

  He and Hawkmoon were spread-eagled on either side of Bewchard. Two of the dead sacrificial victims had been cut down and they had replaced them. Below the black things rose and dived restlessly in the pool of blood. Above the light from the Sword of the Dawn cast a red glow throughout the hall, cast a glow upon the upturned, expectant faces of the Pirate Lords, upon Valjon's face as his brooding eyes stared with a kind of triumph at their stripped bodies which, like Bewchard's, had been daubed with peculiar symbols.

  There were strange plopping noises below as the creatures in the pit swam about in the blood, waiting, no doubt, for the fresh blood to fall into their pool.

  Hawkmoon shuddered and barely restrained himself from vomiting. His head ached and his limbs felt weak and incredibly painful. He thought of Yisselda, of his home and his efforts to wage war on the Dark Empire.

  Now he would never see his wife again, never breathe the air of the Kamarg, never aid in the downfall of Granbretan, should that time ever come. And he had lost all that in a vain effort to save a stranger, a man he hardly knew, whose fight was remote and unimportant compared with the fight against the Dark Empire.

  Now it was too late to consider those things, for he was going to die. He would die in a terrible way, bled like a pig, feeling his strength ebbing from him with every pulse of his heart.

  Valjon smiled.

  "You do not call out a bold battle-cry now, my slave friend. You seem silent. Have you nothing to ask me?

  Would you not beg for your life—beg to be made my slave again? Would you not apologise for sinking my ship, for killing my men, for insulting me?"

  Hawkmoon spat at him.

  Valjon gave a slight shrug. "I wait for a new knife.

  When that is brought and properly blessed, then I shall slit your veins here and there, making sure that you die very slowly, that you will be able to see your blood feeding the ones below. Your bloodless corpses will be sent to the Mayor of Narleen—Bewchard's uncle if I'm not mistaken—as evidence that we of Starvel do not expect to be disobeyed."

  A pirate came through the hall and kneeled at Valjon's feet, offering him a long, sharp knife. Valjon accepted it and the pirate backed away.

  Valjon now murmured words over the knife, looking often up at the Sword of the Dawn, then he took the knife in his right hand and raised it until its tip was almost touching Hawkmoon's groin.

  "Now we shall begin again," said Valjon, and slowly he started to chant the litany Hawkmoon had heard earlier.

  Hawkmoon tasted bile in his mouth as he tried to break free of the cords that bound him. The words droned on, the chanting rose in volume and in hysterical pitch,

  ". . . Sword of the Dawn, which makes the dead come alive, causes the living to remain living ..."

  The tip of the knife stroked Hawkmoon's thigh.

  ". . . which draws its light from the lifeblood of Men..."

  Absently, Hawkmoon wondered if, indeed, the rosy sword did derive its light, in some peculiar way, from blood. The knife touched his knee and he shuddered again, cursing at Valjon, struggling wildly in the bonds.

  ". . . know that you shall be worshipped for all time...".

  Suddenly Valjon paused in his chanting and gasped, looking beyond Hawkmoon to a spot above his head.

  Hawkmoon craned his neck back and gasped, too.

  The Sword of the Dawn was descending from the roof!

  It came slowly and then Hawkmoon could see that it hung in a land of web of metallic ropes—and there was something else in the web, now—the figure of a man.

  The man wore a long helmet that hid all his face. His armour and trappings were all black and golden and at his side he bore a huge broadsword.

  Hawkmoon could not believe it. He recognised the man—if man it was.

  "The Warrior in Jet and Gold!" he cried.

  "At your service," said a sardonic voice from within the helm.

  Valjon snarled with rage and flung the knife at the Warrior in Jet and Gold. It clattered on his armour and fell into the pool.

  The Warrior hung by one gauntleted hand to the pommel of the Sword of the Dawn and carefully cut at the thongs holding Hawkmoon's wrists.

  "You—you desecrate our most holy object," Valjon said unbelievingly. "Why are you not punished? Our god, Batach Gerandiun, will have his vengeance. The sword is his, it contains his spirit."

  "I know better," said the Warrior. "The sword is Hawkmoon's. The Runestaff saw fit, once, to use your ancestor Batach Gerandiun for its purposes, giving him power over this rosy blade, but now you have lost the power and Hawkmoon here has it!"

  "I do not understand you?" Valjon said baffled.

  "And who are you? Where do you come from? Are you—could you be—Batach Gerandiun?"

  "I could be," murmured the Warrior. "I could be many things, many men."

  Hawkmoon prayed that the Warrior would be finished in time. Valjon would not remain so dazed for-ever. He clung to the frame as his wr
ists came free, took the knife the Warrior handed him, began gingerly to cut at the thongs binding his ankles.

  Valjon shook his head.

  "This is impossible. A nightmare." He turned to his fellow pirates. "Do you see it, too—the man who hangs from our sword?"

  They nodded dumbly. One of them began to run back towards the entrance of the hall. "I'll fetch men.

  Men to aid us..."

  Hawkmoon sprang then—sprang for the nearest pirate lord and grasped him by the throat. The man cried out, tried to wrench Hawkmoon's hands away, but Hawkmoon bent back his head until the neck snapped, swiftly drew the sword from the corpse's scabbard and let the body drop.

  There he stood, naked in the glow from the great sword, while the Warrior in Jet and Gold cut at the bonds of his friends.

  Valjon backed away, his eyes disbelieving. "It cannot be. It cannot be..."

  Now D'Averc swung down to stand beside Hawkmoon, then Bewchard joined him. Both were unarmed and naked.

  Nonplussed by their leader's indecision, the other pirates made no move. Behind the naked trio, the Warrior in Jet and Gold swung on the great sword, dragging it nearer to the floor.

  Valjon screamed and grabbed for the blade, wrenching it from its web of metal. "It is mine! It is mine by right!"

  The Warrior in Jet and Gold shook his head. "It is Hawkmoon's by right!"

  Valjon clutched the sword to him. "He shall not have it! Destroy them!"

  Now men were rushing into the hall, bearing brands, and the pirate lords drew their swords, began to advance on the four who stood by the pool. The Warrior in Jet and Gold drew his own great blade and swept it before him like a scythe, driving the pirates back, killing several.

  "Take up their swords," he told Bewchard and D'Averc. "Now we must fight."

  Bewchard and D'Averc did as the Warrior instructed and, following behind him, pushed forward.

  But now it seemed that a thousand men filled the hall. They had gleaming eyes which lusted for their lives.

  "You must take that sword from Valjon, Hawkmoon," shouted the Warrior above the din of battle.

  "Take it—or we shall all perish!"

  Again they were pressed back to the edge of the bloody pit and behind them there came a slobbering sound. Hawkmoon darted a look into the pit and cried out in horror. "They are rising from the pool!"

  And now the creatures swam toward the edge and Hawkmoon saw that they were like the tentacled creature they had encountered in the forest, but smaller.

  Evidently they were of the same breed, brought here centuries before by Valjon's ancestors, gradually adapting from an environment of water to an environment of human blood!

  He felt a tentacle touch his naked flesh and he shuddered in cold terror. The peril at his back gave him extra strength and he drove with all his might at the pirates, seeking out Valjon who stood nearby, clutching at the Sword of the Dawn which engulfed him in its weird, red radiance.

  Seeing his danger, Valjon moved his hand to the hilt of the sword, called out something and waited expectantly. But what he expected to happen did not occur and he gasped, running at Hawkmoon with the sword raised high.

  Hawkmoon sidestepped, blocked the blow and staggered, half-blinded by the light. Valjon screamed and swung the rosy sword again. Hawkmoon ducked beneath the swing and brought his own blade in, catching Valjon in the shoulder. With a great, bewildered cry Valjon struck again and again his blow was avoided by the naked man.

  Valjon paused, studying Hawkmoon's face, his expression one of mingled terror and astonishment. "How can it be?" he murmured. "How can it be?"

  Hawkmoon laughed then. "Do not ask me, Valjon, for all this is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.

  But I was told to take your sword, and take it I shall!"

  And with that he aimed another thrust at Valjon which the Pirate Lord deflected with a sweeping motion of the Sword of the Dawn.

  Now Valjon's back was toward the pit and Hawkmoon saw that the things, blood streaming down their scaly sides, were beginning to crawl onto the floor.

  Hawkmoon drove the Pirate Lord further and further toward the dreadful creatures. He saw a tentacle reach out and catch Valjon's leg, heard the man scream in fear and try to hack at the tentacle with his blade.

  Hawkmoon stepped forward then, aimed a blow at Valjon's face with his fist and, with his other hand, wrenched the sword from the Pirate Lord's hand.

  Then he watched grimly as Valjon was dragged slowly into the pool.

  Valjon stretched out his hands to Hawkmoon. "Save me—please save me, Hawkmoon."

  But Hawkmoon's eyes were bleak and he did nothing, simply stood with his hands on the pommel of the Sword of the Dawn as Valjon was dragged closer and closer to the pit of blood.

  Valjon said nothing further but covered his face with his hands as first one leg and then the other was drawn into the pool.

  There came a long, despairing scream and Valjon disappeared beneath the surface of the pool.

  Hawkmoon turned now, hefting the heavy sword and marvelling at the light which shone from it. He took it in both hands and looked to see how his friends were faring. They stood in a tight group, fighting off scores of enemies and it was plain that they would have been overwhelmed by now had it not been for the fact that the pool was disgorging its terrible contents.

  The Warrior saw that he had the blade and cried out something, but Hawkmoon could not hear it. He was forced to bring the sword up to defend himself as a knot of pirates came at him, drove them back and cut through them in an effort to join his friends.

  The things from the pit were crowding the edge now, slithering over the floor, and Hawkmoon realised that their position was virtually hopeless, for they were trapped between a horde of swordsmen on one hand and the creatures of the pool on the other.

  Again the Warrior in Jet and Gold tried to cry out, but still Hawkmoon could not hear him. He battled on, desperately trying to reach the Warrior, hacking off a head here, a limb there and slowly coming closer and closer to his mysterious ally.

  The Warrior's voice sounded again and this time Hawkmoon heard the words.

  "Call for them!" he boomed. "Call for the Legion of the Dawn, Hawkmoon, or we're lost!"

  Hawkmoon frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "It is your right to command the Legion. Summon them. In the name of the Runestaff, man, summon them!"

  Hawkmoon parried a thrust and cut down the man who attacked him. The blade's light seemed to be fading, but it could have been that it was now in competi-tion with the scores of torches blazing in the hall.

  "Call for your men, Hawkmoon!" cried the Warrior in Jet and Gold desperately.

  Hawkmoon shrugged and disbelievingly cried out:

  "I summon the Legion of the Dawn!"

  Nothing happened. Hawkmoon had expected nothing. He had no faith in legends, as he had said before.

  But then he noticed that the pirates were screaming and that new figures had appeared from nowhere—strange figures who blazed with rosy light, who struck about them ferociously, chopping down the pirates.

  Hawkmoon drew a deep breath and wondered at the sight.

  The newcomers were dressed in highly ornamental armor somehow reminiscent of a past age. They were armed with lances decorated with tufts of dyed hair, with huge notched clubs covered with ornate carvings and they howled and shouted and killed with incredible ferocity, driving many pirates from the hall within moments.

  Their bodies were brown, their faces covered in paint from which huge black eyes stared, and from their throats came a strange, moaning dirge.

  The pirates fought back desperately, striking down the shining warriors. But as a man died, his body would vanish and a new warrior would appear from nowhere. Hawkmoon tried to see where they came from, but he was never able to do so—he would turn his head and when he looked back a new warrior would be standing there.

  Panting, Hawkmoon joined his friends. The naked bodies of Bewchard and D'Averc were
cut in a dozen places, but not badly. They stood and watched as the Legion of the Dawn slaughtered the pirates.

  "These are the soldiers who serve the sword," said the Warrior in Jet and Gold. "With them, because it then suited the Runestaff's scheme of things, Valjon's ancestor made himself feared throughout Narleen and its surrounds. But now the sword turns against Valjon's people, to take from them what it gave them!"

  Hawkmoon felt something touch his ankle, turned and shouted in horror. "The things from the pit! I had forgotten them!" He hacked at the tentacle.

  Instantly there were a dozen of the shining warriors between him and the monsters. The tufted lances rose and fell, the clubs battered and the monsters tried to retreat. But the Soldiers of the Dawn would not let them retreat. They surrounded them, stabbing and hacking until all that remained was a black mess staining the floor of the hall.

  "It is done," Bewchard said incredulously. "We are the victors. The power of Starvel is broken at last." He stooped and picked up a brand. "Come, friend Hawkmoon, let us lead your ghostly warriors forward into the city. Let us kill all we find. Let us burn."

  "Aye . . ." Hawkmoon began, but the Warrior in Jet and Gold shook his head.

  "No—it is not for killing pirates that the Legion is yours, Hawkmoon. It is yours so that you may do the Runestaff's work."

  Hawkmoon hesitated.

  The Warrior placed a hand on Bewchard's shoulder.

  "Now that most of the pirate lords are dead and Valjon destroyed, there will be nothing to stop you and your men returning to Starvel to finish the work we began tonight. But Hawkmoon and his blade are needed for greater things. He must leave soon."

  Hawkmoon felt anger come then. "I am grateful to you, Warrior in Jet and Gold, for what you have done to aid me. But I would remind you that I would not be here at all had it not been for your schemings and those of dead Mygan of Llandar. I need to return home—to Castle Brass and my beloved. I am my own man, Warrior. I will decide my fate."